ONE  OF  OURS 


BOOKS  BY 
WILL  A  GATHER 

ALEXANDER'S  BRIDGE 

O  PIONEERS 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  LARK 

MY  ANTONIA 

YOUTH  AND  THE  BRIGHT  MEDUSA 

ONE  OF  OURS 


ONE  OF  OURS 


WILLA  GATHER 


'Bidding  the  eagles  of  the  West  fly  on  .  .  .  " 

Vachel  Lindsay 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  f  A  *  KNOPF 
MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,   BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

First  printing,  September,  1922,  consisted  of  thirty-five 
copies  on  Imperial  Japan  Vellum  and  three  hundred  and 
ten  copies  on  Perusia  handmade  Italian  paper,  num- 
bered and  signed  by  tJie  author. 

Second  Printing,  September,  1982 

Third  Printing,  September,  1922 

Fourth  Printing,  September,  1922 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  the  Vail-Battou  Co.,  Binghamton,  N.  7. 

Paper  furnished  by  W.  F.  Etherington  &  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Printed  and  bound  by  the  Plimpton  Press,  Norwood,  Mass. 


MANUFACTURED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMEHICA 


For  my  mother 

VIRGINIA  GATHER 


CONTENTS 

BOOK      I    ON  LOVELY  CREEK  I 

BOOK    II    ENID  117 

BOOK  III    SUNRISE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE  201 

BOOK  IV    THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  ANCHISES  267 

BOOK    V    "BIDDING  THE  EAGLES  OF  THE  WEST  FLY  ON" 323 


BOOK  ONE: 
ON  LOVELY  CREEK 


CLAUDE  WHEELER  opened  his  eyes  before  the  sun 
was  up  and  vigorously  shook  his  younger  brother, 
who  lay  in  the  other  half  of  the  same  bed. 

"Ralph,  Ralph,  get  awake!  Come  down  and  help  me  wash 
the  car." 

"What  for?" 

"Why,  aren't  we  going  to  the  circus  today  ?" 

"Car's  all  right.  Let  me  alone."  The  boy  turned  over  and 
pulled  the  sheet  up  to  his  face,  to  shut  out  the  light  which  was 
beginning  to  come  through  the  curtainless  windows. 

Claude  rose  and  dressed, —  a  simple  operation  which  took 
very  little  time.  He  crept  down  two  flights  of  stairs,  feeling 
his  way  in  the  dusk,  his  red  hair  standing  up  in  peaks,  like  a 
cock's  comb.  He  went  through  the  kitchen  into  the  adjoining 
washroom,  which  held  two  porcelain  stands  with  running 
water.  Everybody  had  washed  before  going  to  bed,  appar- 
ently, and  the  bowls  were  ringed  with  a  dark  sediment  which 
the  hard,  alkaline  water  had  not  dissolved.  Shutting  the  door 
on  this  disorder,  he  turned  back  to  the  kitchen,  took  Mahailey's 
tin  basin,  doused  his  face  and  head  in  cold  water,  and  began 
to  plaster  down  his  wet  hair. 

Old  Mahailey  herself  came  in  from  the  yard,  with  her  apron 
full  of  corn-cobs  to  start  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  stove.  She 
smiled  at  him  in  the  foolish  fond  way  she  often  had  with  him 
when  they  were  alone. 

"What  air  you  gittin'  up  for  a-ready,  boy?  You  goin'  to 

i 


One  of  Ours 


the  circus  before  breakfast?  Don't  you  make  no  noise,  else 
you'll  have  'em  all  down  here  before  I  git  my  fire  a-goin'." 

"All  right,  Mahailey."  Claude  caught  up  his  cap  and  ran 
out  of  doors,  down  the  hillside  toward  the  barn.  The  sun 
popped  up  over  the  edge  of  the  prairie  like  a  broad,  smiling 
face;  the  light  poured  across  the  close-cropped  August 
pastures  and  the  hilly,  timbered  windings  of  Lovely  Creek, — 
a  clear  little  stream  with  a  sand  bottom,  that  curled  and  twisted 
playfully  about  through  the  south  section  of  the  big  Wheeler 
ranch.  It  was  a  fine  day  to  go  to  the  circus  at  Frankfort, 
a  fine  day  to  do  anything;  the  sort  of  day  that  must,  some- 
how, turn  out  well. 

Claude  backed  the  little  Ford  car  out  of  its  shed,  ran  it  up 
to  the  horse-tank,  and  began  to  throw  water  on  the  mud-crusted 
wheels  and  windshield.  While  he  was  at  work  the  two  hired 
men,  Dan  and  Jerry,  came  shambling  down  the  hill  to  feed  the 
stock.  Jerry  was  grumbling  and  swearing  about  something, 
but  Claude  wrung  out  his  wet  rags  and,  beyond  a  nod,  paid  no 
attention  to  them.  Somehow  his  father  always  managed  to 
have  the  roughest  and  dirtiest  hired  men  in  the  country  work- 
ing for  him.  Claude  had  a  grievance  against  Jerry  just  now, 
because  of  his  treatment  of  one  of  the  horses. 

Molly  was  a  faithful  old  mare,  the  mother  of  many  colts; 
Claude  and  his  younger  brother  had  learned  to  ride  on  her. 
This  man  Jerry,  taking  her  out  to  work  one  morning,  let  her 
step  on  a  board  with  a  nail  sticking  up  in  it.  He  pulled  the 
nail  out  of  her  foot,  said  nothing  to  anybody,  and  drove  her  to 
the  cultivator  all  day.  Now  she  had  been  standing  in  her 
stall  for  weeks,  patiently  suffering,  her  body  wretchedly  thin, 
and  her  leg  swollen  until  it  looked  like  an  elephant's.  She 
would  have  to  stand  there,  the  veterinary  said,  until  her  hoof 


On  Lovely  Creek 


came  off  and  she  grew  a  new  one,  and  she  would  always  be 
stiff.  Jerry  had  not  been  discharged,  and  he  exhibited  the 
poor  animal  as  if  she  were  a  credit  to  him. 

Mahailey  came  out  on  the  hilltop  and  rang  the  breakfast 
bell.  After  the  hired  men  went  up  to  the  house,  Claude  slipped 
into  the  barn  to  see  that  Molly  had  got  her  share  of  oats. 
She  was  eating  quietly,  her  head  hanging,  and  her  scaly,  dead- 
looking  foot  lifted  just  a  little  from  the  ground.  When  he 
stroked  her  neck  and  talked  to  her  she  stopped  grinding  and 
gazed  at  him  mournfully.  She  knew  him,  and  wrinkled  her 
nose  and  drew  her  upper  lip  back  from  her  worn  teeth,  to 
show  that  she  liked  being  petted.  She  let  him  touch  her  foot 
and  examine  her  leg. 

When  Claude  reached  the  kitchen,  his  mother  was  sitting  at 
one  end  of  the  breakfast  table,  pouring  weak  coffee,  his  brother 
and  Dan  and  Jerry  were  in  their  chairs,  and  Mahailey  was 
baking  griddle  cakes  at  the  stove.  A  moment  later  Mr. 
Wheeler  came  down  the  enclosed  stairway  and  walked  the 
length  of  the  table  to  his  own  place.  He  was  a  very  large 
man,  taller  and  broader  than  any  of  his  neighbours.  He  sel- 
dom wore  a  coat  in  summer,  and  his  rumpled  shirt  bulged  out 
carelessly  over  the  belt  of  his  trousers.  His  florid  face  was 
clean  shaven,  likely  to  be  a  trifle  tobacco-stained  about  the 
mouth,  and  it  was  conspicuous  both  for  good-nature  and  coarse 
humour,  and  for  an  imperturbable  physical  composure.  No- 
body in  the  county  had  ever  seen  Nat  Wheeler  flustered  about 
anything,  and  nobody  had  ever  heard  him  speak  with  complete 
seriousness.  He  kept  up  his  easy-going,  jocular  affability 
even  with  his  own  family. 

As  soon  as  he  was  seated,  Mr.  Wheeler  reached  for  the 
two-pint  sugar  bowl  and  began  to  pour  sugar  into  his  coffee. 


One  of  Ours 


Ralph  asked  him  if  he  were  going  to  the  circus.  Mr.  Wheeler 
winked. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  happened  in  town  sometime  before 
the  elephants  get  away."  He  spoke  very  deliberately,  with 
a  State-of-Maine  drawl,  and  his  voice  was  smooth  and  agree- 
able. "You  boys  better  start  in  early,  though.  You  can  take 
the  wagon  and  the  mules,  and  load  in  the  cowhides.  The 
butcher  has  agreed  to  take  them." 

Claude  put  down  his  knife.  "Can't  we  have  the  car  ?  I've 
washed  it  on  purpose." 

"And  what  about  Dan  and  Jerry?  They  want  to  see  the 
circus  just  as  much  as  you  do,  and  I  want  the  hides  should 
go  in ;  they're  bringing  a  good  price  now.  I  don't  mind  about 
your  washing  the  car;  mud  preserves  the  paint,  they  say,  but 
it'll  be  all  right  this  time,  Claude." 

The  hired  men  haw-hawed  and  Ralph  giggled.  Claude's 
freckled  face  got  very  red.  The  pancake  grew  stiff  and  heavy 
in  his  mouth  and  was  hard  to  swallow.  His  father  knew  he 
hated  to  drive  the  mules  to  town,  and  knew  how  he  hated  to 
go  anywhere  with  Dan  and  Jerry.  As  for  the  hides,  they 
were  the  skins  of  four  steers  that  had  perished  in  the  blizzard 
last  winter  through  the  wanton  carelessness  of  these  same 
hired  men,  and  the  price  they  would  bring  would  not  half  pay 
for  the  time  his  father  had  spent  in  stripping  and  curing  them. 
They  had  lain  in  a  shed  loft  all  summer,  and  the  wagon  had 
been  to  town  a  dozen  times.  But  today,  when  he  wanted  to  go 
to  Frankfort  clean  and  care-free,  he  must  take  these  stinking 
hides  and  two  coarse-mouthed  men,  and  drive  a  pair  of  mules 
that  always  brayed  and  balked  and  behaved  ridiculously  in  a 
crowd.  Probably  his  father  had  looked  out  of  the  window 
and  seen  him  washing  the  car,  and  had  put  this  up  on  him 


On  Lovely  Creek 


while  he  dressed.     It  was  like  his   father's  idea  of  a  joke. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  looked  at  Claude  sympathetically,  feeling  that 
he  was  disappointed.  Perhaps  she,  too,  suspected  a  joke. 
She  had  learned  that  humour  might  wear  almost  any  guise. 

When  Claude  started  for  the  barn  after  breakfast,  she  came 
running  down  the  path,  calling  to  him  faintly, —  hurrying 
always  made  her  short  of  breath.  Overtaking  him,  she  looked 
up  with  solicitude,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  delicately  formed 
hand.  "If  you  want  I  should  do  up  your  linen  coat,  Claude, 
I  can  iron  it  while  you're  hitching,"  she  said  wistfully. 

Claude  stood  kicking  at  a  bunch  of  mottled  feathers  that 
had  once  been  a  young  chicken.  His  shoulders  were  drawn 
high,  his  mother  saw,  and  his  figure  suggested  energy  and 
determined  self-control. 

"You  needn't  mind,  mother."  He  spoke  rapidly,  muttering 
his  words.  "I'd  better  wear  my  old  clothes  if  I  have  to  take 
the  hides.  They're  greasy,  and  in  the  sun  they'll  smell  worse 
than  fertilizer." 

"The  men  can  handle  the  hides,  I  should  think.  Wouldn't 
you  feel  better  in  town  to  be  dressed  ?"  She  was  still  blinking 
up  at  him. 

"Don't  bother  about  it.  Put  me  out  a  clean  coloured  shirt, 
if  you  want  to.  That's  all  right." 

He  turned  toward  the  barn,  and  his  mother  went  slowly 
back  the  path  up  to  the  house.  She  was  so  plucky  and  so 
stooped,  his  dear  mother!  He  guessed  if  she  could  stand 
having  these  men  about,  could  cook  and  wash  for  them,  he 
could  drive  them  to  town ! 

Half  an  hour  after  the  wagon  left,  Nat  Wheeler  put  on  an 
alpaca  coat  and  went  off  in  the  rattling  buckboard  in  which, 
though  he  kept  two  automobiles,  he  still  drove  about  the 


One  of  Ours 


country.  He  said  nothing  to  his  wife ;  it  was  her  business  to 
guess  whether  or  not  he  would  be  home  for  dinner.  She  and 
Mahailey  could  have  a  good  time  scrubbing  and  sweeping  all 
day,  with  no  men  around  to  bother  them. 

There  were  few  days  in  the  year  when  Wheeler  did  not 
drive  off  somewhere ;  to  an  auction  sale,  or  a  political  conven- 
tion, or  a  meeting  of  the  Farmers'  Telephone  directors ;  —  to  see 
how  his  neighbours  were  getting  on  with  their  work,  if  there 
was  nothing  else  to  look  after.  He  preferred  his  buckboard  to 
a  car  because  it  was  light,  went  easily  over  heavy  or  rough 
roads,  and  was  so  rickety  that  he  never  felt  he  must  suggest 
his  wife's  accompanying  him.  Besides  he  could  see  the  coun- 
try better  when  he  didn't  have  to  keep  his  mind  on  the  road. 
He  had  come  to  this  part  of  Nebraska  when  the  Indians 
and  the  buffalo  were  still  about,  remembered  the  grasshopper 
year  and  the  big  cyclone,  had  watched  the  farms  emerge  one 
by  one  from  the  great  rolling  page  where  once  only  the  wind 
wrote  its  story.  He  had  encouraged  new  settlers  to  take  up 
homesteads,  urged  on  courtships,  loaned  young  fellows  the 
money  to  marry  on,  seen  families  grow  and  prosper;  until  he 
felt  a  little  as  if  all  this  were  his  own  enterprise.  The  changes, 
not  only  those  the  years  made,  but  those  the  seasons  made, 
were  interesting  to  him. 

People  recognized  Nat  Wheeler  and  his  cart  a  mile  away. 
He  sat  massive  and  comfortable,  weighing  down  one  end  of 
the  slanting  seat,  his  driving  hand  lying  on  his  knee.  Even 
his  German  neighbours,  the  Yoeders,  who  hated  to  stop  work 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  on  any  account,  were  glad  to  see  him 
coming.  The  merchants  in  the  little  towns  about  the  county 
missed  him  if  he  didn't  drop  in  once  a  week  or  so.  He  was  ac- 
tive in  politics ;  never  ran  for  an  office  himself,  but  often  took 


On  Lovely  Creek 


up  the  cause  of  a  friend  and  conducted  his  campaign  for  him. 

The  French  saying,  "Joy  of  the  street,  sorrow  of  the  home," 
was  exemplified  in  Mr.  Wheeler,  though  not  at  all  in  the 
French  way.  His  own  affairs  were  of  secondary  importance 
to  him.  In  the  early  days  he  had  homesteaded  and  bought  and 
leased  enough  land  to  make  him  rich.  Now  he  had  only  to 
rent  it  out  to  good  farmers  who  liked  to  work  —  he  didn't, 
and  of  that  he  made  no  secret.  When  he  was  at  home,  he 
usually  sat  upstairs  in  the  living  room,  reading  newspapers. 
He  subscribed  for  a  dozen  or  more  —  the  list  included  a  weekly 
devoted  to  scandal  —  and  he  was  well  informed  about  what  was 
going  on  in  the  world.  He  had  magnificent  health,  and  illness 
in  himself  or  in  other  people  struck  him  as  humorous.  To 
be  sure,  he  never  suffered  from  anything  more  perplexing 
than  toothache  or  boils,  or  an  occasional  bilious  attack. 

Wheeler  gave  liberally  to  churches  and  charities,  was  always 
ready  to  lend  money  or  machinery  to  a  neighbour  who  was 
short  of  anything.  He  liked  to  tease  and  shock  diffident  people, 
and  had  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  funny  stories.  Every- 
body marvelled  that  he  got  on  so  well  with  his  oldest  son, 
Bayliss  Wheeler.  Not  that  Bayliss  was  exactly  diffident,  but 
he  was  a  narrow-gauge  fellow,  the  sort  of  prudent  young 
man  one  wouldn't  expect  Nat  Wheeler  to  like. 

Bayliss  had  a  farm  implement  business  in  Frankfort,  and 
though  he  was  still  under  thirty  he  had  made  a  very  con- 
siderable financial  success.  Perhaps  Wheeler  was  proud  of 
his  son's  business  acumen.  At  any  rate,  he  drove  to  town  to 
see  Bayliss  several  times  a  week,  went  to  sales  and  stock  ex- 
hibits with  him,  and  sat  about  his  store  for  hours  at  a  stretch, 
joking  with  the  farmers  who  came  in.  Wheeler  had  been  a 
heavy  drinker  in  his  day,  and  was  still  a  heavy  feeder.  Bay- 


8  One  of  Ours 


liss  was  thin  and  dyspeptic,  and  a  virulent  Prohibitionist;  he 
would  have  liked  to  regulate  everybody's  diet  by  his  own  feeble 
constitution.  Even  Mrs.  Wheeler,  who  took  the  men  God  had 
apportioned  her  for  granted,  wondered  how  Bayliss  and  his  fa- 
ther could  go  off  to  conventions  together  and  have  a  good  time, 
since  their  ideas  of  what  made  a  good  time  were  so  different. 

Once  every  few  years,  Mr.  Wheeler  bought  a  new  suit  and  a 
dozen  stiff  shirts  and  went  back  to  Maine  to  visit  his  brothers 
and  sisters,  who  were  very  quiet,  conventional  people.  But  he 
was  always  glad  to  get  home  to  his  old  clothes,  his  big  farm, 
his  buckboard,  and  Bayliss. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  had  come  out  from  Vermont  to  be  Principal 
of  the  High  School,  when  Frankfort  was  a  frontier  town  and 
Nat  Wheeler  was  a  prosperous  bachelor.  He  must  have 
fancied  her  for  the  same  reason  he  liked  his  son  Bayliss, — • 
because  she  was  so  different.  There  was  this  to  be  said  for 
Nat  Wheeler,  that  he  liked  every  sort  of  human  creature;  he 
liked  good  people  and  honest  people,  and  he  liked  rascals  and 
hypocrites  almost  to  the  point  of  loving  them.  If  he  heard 
that  a  neighbour  had  played  a  sharp  trick  or  done  something 
particularly  mean,  he  was  sure  to  drive  over  to  see  the  man 
at  once,  as  if  he  hadn't  hitherto  appreciated  him. 

There  was  a  large,  loafing  dignity  about  Claude's  father. 
He  liked  to  provoke  others  to  uncouth  laughter,  but  he 
never  laughed  immoderately  himself.  In  telling  stories  about 
him,  people  often  tried  to  imitate  his  smooth,  senatorial  voice, 
robust  but  never  loud.  Even  when  he  was  hilariously  de- 
lighted by  anything, —  as  when  poor  Mahailey,  undressing  in 
the  dark  on  a  summer  night,  sat  down  on  the  sticky  fly-paper, 
—  he  was  not  boisterous.  He  was  a  jolly,  easy-going  father, 
indeed,  for  a  boy  who  was  not  thin-skinned. 


II 

CLAUDE  and  his  mules  rattled  into  Frankfort  just 
as  the  calliope  went  screaming  down  Maine  street  at 
the  head  of  the  circus  parade.  Getting  rid  of  his 
disagreeable  freight  and  his  uncongenial  companions  as  soon 
as  possible,  he  elbowed  his  way  along  the  crowded  sidewalk, 
looking  for  some  of  the  neighbour  boys.  Mr.  Wheeler  was 
standing  on  the  Farmer's  Bank  corner,  towering  a  head  above 
the  throng,  chaffing  with  a  little  hunchback  who  was  setting  up 
a  shell-game.  To  avoid  his  father,  Claude  turned  and  went  in- 
to his  brother's  store.  The  two  big  show  windows  were  full  of 
country  children,  their  mothers  standing  behind  them  to  watch 
the  parade.  Bayliss  was  seated  in  the  little  glass  cage  where 
he  did  his  writing  and  bookkeeping.  He  nodded  at  Claude 
from  his  desk. 

"Hello,"  said  Claude,  bustling  in  as  if  he  were  in  a  great 
hurry.  "Have  you  seen  Ernest  Havel?  I  thought  I  might 
find  him  in  here." 

Bayliss  swung  round  in  his  swivel  chair  to  return  a  plough 
catalogue  to  the  shelf.  "What  would  he  be  in  here  for?  Bet- 
ter look  for  him  in  the  saloon."  Nobody  could  put  meaner 
insinuations  into  a  slow,  dry  remark  than  Bayliss. 

Claude's  cheeks  flamed  with  anger.  As  he  turned  away,  he 
noticed  something  unusual  about  his  brother's  face,  but  he 
wasn't  going  to  give  him  the  satisfaction  of  asking  him  how 
he  had  got  a  black  eye.  Ernest  Havel  was  a  Bohemian,  and  he 
usually  drank  a  glass  of  beer  when  he  came  to  town;  but  he 

9 


10  One  of  Ours 


was  sober  and  thoughtful  beyond  the  wont  of  young  men. 
From  Bayliss'  drawl  one  might  have  supposed  that  the  boy  was 
a  drunken  loafer. 

At  that  very  moment  Claude  saw  his  friend  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  following  the  wagon  of  trained  dogs  that 
brought  up  the  rear  of  the  procession.  He  ran  across,  through 
a  crowd  of  shouting  youngsters,  and  caught  Ernest  by  the  arm. 

"Hello,  where  are  you  off  to  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  eat  my  lunch  before  show-time.  I  left  my 
wagon  out  by  the  pumping  station,  on  the  creek.  What  about 
you?" 

"I've  got  no  program.     Can  I  go  along?" 

Ernest  smiled.     "I  expect.     I've  got  enough  lunch  for  two." 

"Yes,  I  know.     You  always  have.     I'll  join  you  later." 

Claude  would  have  liked  to  take  Ernest  to  the  hotel  for 
dinner.  He  had  more  than  enough  money  in  his  pockets;  and 
his  father  was  a  rich  farmer.  In  the  Wheeler  family  a  new 
thrasher  or  a  new  automobile  was  ordered  without  a  question, 
but  it  was  considered  extravagant  to  go  to  a  hotel  for  dinner. 
If  his  father  or  Bayliss  heard  that  he  had  been  there  —  and 
Bayliss  heard  everything  —  they  would  say  he  was  putting  on 
airs,  and  would  get  back  at  him.  He  tried  to  excuse  his  cowar- 
dice to  himself  by  saying  that  he  was  dirty  and  smelled 
of  the  hides ;  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  he  did  not  ask 
Ernest  to  go  to  the  hotel  with  him  because  he  had  been  so 
brought  up  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  him  to  do  this  simple 
thing.  He  made  some  purchases  at  the  fruit  stand  and  the 
cigar  counter,  and  then  hurried  out  along  the  dusty  road 
toward  the  pumping  station.  Ernest's  wagon  was  standing 
under  the  shade  of  some  willow  trees,  on  a  little  sandy  bottom 
half  enclosed  by  a  loop  of  the  creek  which  curved  like  a  horse- 


On  Lovely   Creek  II 

shoe.  Claude  threw  himself  on  the  sand  beside  the  stream  and 
wiped  the  dust  from  his  hot  face.  He  felt  he  had  now  closed 
the  door  on  his  disagreeable  morning. 

Ernest  produced  his  lunch  basket. 

"I  got  a  couple  bottles  of  beer  cooling  in  the  creek,"  he 
said.  "I  knew  you  wouldn't  want  to  go  in  a  saloon." 

"Oh,  forget  it!"  Claude  muttered,  ripping  the  cover  off  a 
jar  of  pickles.  He  was  nineteen  years  old,  and  he  was  afraid 
to  go  into  a  saloon,  and  his  friend  knew  he  was  afraid. 

After  lunch,  Claude  took  out  a  handful  of  good  cigars  he 
had  bought  at  the  drugstore.  Ernest,  who  couldn't  afford 
cigars,  was  pleased.  He  lit  one,  and  as  he  smoked  he  kept 
looking  at  it  with  an  air  of  pride  and  turning  it  around  between 
his  fingers. 

The  horses  stood  with  their  heads  over  the  wagon-box, 
munching  their  oats.  The  stream  trickled  by  under  the  willow 
roots  with  a  cool,  persuasive  sound.  Claude  and  Ernest  lay 
in  the  shade,  their  coats  under  their  heads,  talking  very  little. 
Occasionally  a  motor  dashed  along  the  road  toward  town,  and 
a  cloud  of  dust  and  a  smell  of  gasoline  blew  in  over  the  creek 
bottom ;  but  for  the  most  part  the  silence  of  the  warm,  lazy 
summer  noon  was  undisturbed.  Claude  could  usually  forget 
his  own  vexations  and  chagrins  when  he  was  with  Ernest. 
The  Bohemian  boy  was  never  uncertain,  was  not  pulled  in  two 
or  three  ways  at  once.  He  was  simple  and  direct.  He  had  a 
number  of  impersonal  preoccupations;  was  interested  in 
politics  and  history  and  in  new  inventions.  Claude  felt  that 
his  friend  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  mental  liberty  to  which 
he  himself  could  never  hope  to  attain.  After  he  had  talked 
with  Ernest  for  awhile,  the  things  that  did  not  go  right  on  the 
farm  seemed  less  important. 


12  One  of  Ours 


Claude's  mother  was  almost  as  fond  of  Ernest  as  he  was 
himself.  When  the  two  boys  were  going  to  high  school, 
Ernest  often  came  over  in  the  evening  to  study  with  Claude, 
and  while  they  worked  at  the  long  kitchen  table  Mrs.  Wheeler 
brought  her  darning  and  sat  near  them,  helping  them  with 
their  Latin  and  algebra.  Even  old  Mahailey  was  enlightened 
by  their  words  of  wisdom. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  said  she  would  never  forget  the  night  Ernest 
arrived  from  the  Old  Country.  His  brother,  Joe  Havel,  had 
gone  to  Frankfort  to  meet  him,  and  was  to  stop  on  the  way 
home  and  leave  some  groceries  for  the  Wheelers.  The  train 
from  the  east  was  late;  it  was  ten  o'clock  that  night  when 
Mrs.  Wheeler,  waiting  in  the  kitchen,  heard  Havel's  wagon 
rumble  across  the  little  bridge  over  Lovely  Creek.  She  opened 
the  outside  door,  and  presently  Joe  came  in  with  a  bucket  of 
salt  fish  in  one  hand  and  a  sack  of  flour  on  his  shoulder. 
While  he  took  the  fish  down  to  the  cellar  for  her,  another 
figure  appeared  in  the  doorway;  a  young  boy,  short,  stooped, 
with  a  flat  cap  on  his  head  and  a  great  oilcloth  valise,  such 
as  pedlars  carry,  strapped  to  his  back.  He  had  fallen  asleep 
in  the  wagon,  and  on  waking  and  finding  his  brother  gone,  he 
had  supposed  they  were  at  home  and  scrambled  for  his  pack. 
He  stood  in  the  doorway,  blinking  his  eyes  at  the  light,  looking 
astonished  but  eager  to  do  whatever  was  required  of  him. 
What  if  one  of  her  own  boys,  Mrs.  Wheeler  thought.  .  .  . 
She  went  up  to  him  and  put  her  arm  around  him,  laughing 
a  little  and  saying  in  her  quiet  voice,  just  as  if  he  could  under- 
stand her,  "Why,  you're  only  a  little  boy  after  all,  aren't  you  ?" 

Ernest  said  afterwards  that  it  was  his  first  welcome  to  this 
country,  though  he  had  travelled  so  far,  and  had  been  pushed 
and  hauled  and  shouted  at  for  so  many  days,  he  had  lost 


On  Lovely  Creek  13 

count  of  them.  That  night  he  and  Claude  only  shook  hands 
and  looked  at  each  other  suspiciously,  but  ever  since  they 
had  been  good  friends. 

After  their  picnic  the  two  boys  went  to  the  circus  in  a  happy 
frame  of  mind.  In  the  animal  tent  they  met  big  Leonard 
Dawson,  the  oldest  son  of  one  of  the  Wheelers'  near  neigh- 
bours, and  the  three  sat  together  for  the  performance.  Leon- 
ard said  he  had  come  to  town  alone  in  his  car ;  wouldn't  Claude 
ride  out  with  him  ?  Claude  was  glad  enough  to  turn  the  mules 
over  to  Ralph,  who  didn't  mind  the  hired  men  as  much  as 
he  did. 

Leonard  was  a  strapping  brown  fellow  of  twenty-five,  with 
big  hands  and  big  feet,  white  teeth,  and  flashing  eyes  full  of 
energy.  He  and  his  father  and  two  brothers  not  only  worked 
their  own  big  farm,  but  rented  a  quarter  section  from  Nat 
Wheeler.  They  were  master  farmers.  If  there  was  a  dry 
summer  and  a  failure,  Leonard  only  laughed  and  stretched  his 
long  arms,  and  put  in  a  bigger  crop  next  year.  Claude  was 
always  a  little  reserved  with  Leonard;  he  felt  that  the  young 
man  was  rather  contemptuous  of  the  hap-hazard  way  in  which 
things  were  done  on  the  Wheeler  place,  and  thought  his  going 
to  college  a  waste  of  money.  Leonard  had  not  even  gone 
through  the  Frankfort  High  School,  and  he  was  already  a 
more  successful  man  than  Claude  was  ever  likely  to  be.  Leon- 
ard did  think  these  things,  but  he  was  fond  of  Claude,  all  the 
same. 

At  sunset  the  car  was  speeding  over  a  fine  stretch  of  smooth 
road  across  the  level  country  that  lay  between  Frankfort  and 
the  rougher  land  along  Lovely  Creek.  Leonard's  attention 
was  largely  given  up  to  admiring  the  faultless  behaviour  of 


14  One  of  Ours 


his  engine.  Presently  he  chuckled  to  himself  and  turned  to 
Claude. 

"I  wonder  if  you'd  take  it  all  right  if  I  told  you  a  joke  on 
Bayliss?" 

"I  expect  I  would."     Claude's  tone  was  not  at  all  eager. 

"You  saw  Bayliss  today  ?  Notice  anything  queer  about  him, 
one  eye  a  little  off  colour?  Did  he  tell  you  how  he  got  it?" 

"No.     I  didn't  ask  him." 

"Just  as  well.  A  lot  of  people  did  ask  him,  though,  and 
he  said  he  was  hunting  around  his  place  for  something  in  the 
dark  and  ran  into  a  reaper.  Well,  I'm  the  reaper !" 

Claude  looked  interested.  "You  mean  to  say  Bayliss  was 
in  a  fight?" 

Leonard  laughed.  "Lord,  no!  Don't  you  know  Bayliss? 
I  went  in  there  to  pay  a  bill  yesterday,  and  Susie  Gray  and 
another  girl  came  in  to  sell  tickets  for  the  firemen's  dinner. 
An  advance  man  for  this  circus  was  hanging  around,  and  he 
began  talking  a  little  smart, —  nothing  rough,  but  the  way  such 
fellows  will.  The  girls  handed  it  back  to  him,  and  sold  him 
three  tickets  and  shut  him  up.  I  couldn't  see  how  Susie 
thought  so  quick  what  to  say.  The  minute  the  girls  went  out 
Bayliss  started  knocking  them;  said  all  the  country  girls  were 
getting  too  fresh  and  knew  more  than  they  ought  to  about 
managing  sporty  men  —  and  right  there  I  reached  out  and 
handed  him  one.  I  hit  harder  than  I  meant  to.  I  meant  to 
slap  him,  not  to  give  him  a  black  eye.  But  you  can't  always 
regulate  things,  and  I  was  hot  all  over.  I  waited  for  him  to 
come  back  at  mel.  I'm  bigger  than  he  is,  and  I  wanted  to  give 
him  satisfaction.  Well,  sir,  he  never  moved  a  muscle!  He 
stood  there  getting  redder  and  redder,  and  his  eyes  watered. 


On  Lovely  Creek 


I  don't  say  he  cried,  but  his  eyes  watered.  'All  right,  Bayliss,' 
said  I.  'Slow  with  your  fists,  if  that's  your  principle;  but 
slow  with  your  tongue,  too,  —  especially  when  the  parties  men- 
tioned aren't  present.'  " 

"Bayliss  will  never  get  over  that,"  was  Claude's  only  com- 
ment. 

"He  don't  have  to  !"  Leonard  threw  up  his  head.  "I'm  a 
good  customer  ;  he  can  like  it  or  lump  it,  till  the  price  of  bind- 
ing twine  goes  down  !" 

For  the  next  few  minutes  the  driver  was  occupied  with 
trying  to  get  up  a  long,  rough  hill  on  high  gear.  Sometimes 
he  could  make  that  hill,  and  sometimes  he  couldn't,  and  he  was 
not  able  to  account  for  the  difference.  After  he  pulled  the 
second  lever  with  some  disgust  and  let  the  car  amble  on  as  she 
would,  he  noticed  that  his  companion  was  disconcerted. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Leonard,"  Claude  spoke  in  a  strained 
voice,  "I  think  the  fair  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  get  out  here 
by  the  road  and  give  me  a  chance." 

Leonard  swung  his  steering  wheel  savagely  to  pass  a  wagon 
on  the  down  side  of  the  hill.  "What  the  devil  are  you  talking 
about,  boy?" 

"You  think  you've  got  our  measure  all  right,  but  you  ought 
to  give  me  a  chance  first." 

Leonard  looked  down  in  amazement  at  his  own  big  brown 
hands,  lying  on  the  wheel.  "You  mortal  fool  kid,  what  would 
I  be  telling  you  all  this  for,  if  I  didn't  know  you  were  another 
breed  of  cats  ?  I  never  thought  you  got  on  too  well  with  Bay- 
liss yourself." 

"I  don't,  but  I  won't  have  you  thinking  you  can  slap  the 
men  in  my  family  whenever  you  feel  like  it."  Claude  knew 


16  One  of  Ours 


that  his  explanation  sounded  foolish,  and  his  voice,  in  spite  of 
all  he  could  do,  was  weak  and  angry. 

Young  Leonard  Dawson  saw  he  had  hurt  the  boy's  feelings. 
"Lord,  Claude,  I  know  you're  a  fighter.  Bayliss  never  was. 
I  went  to  school  with  him." 

The  ride  ended  amicably,  but  Claude  wouldn't  let  Leonard 
take  him  home.  He  jumped  out  of  the  car  with  a  curt  good- 
night, and  ran  across  the  dusky  fields  toward  the  light  that 
shone  from  the  house  on  the  hill.  At  the  little  bridge  over  the 
creek,  he  stopped  to  get  his  breath  and  to  be  sure  that  he  was 
outwardly  composed  before  he  went  in  to  see  his  mother. 

"Ran  against  a  reaper  in  the  dark!"  he  muttered  aloud, 
clenching  his  fist. 

Listening  to  the  deep  singing  of  the  frogs,  and  to  the  distant 
barking  of  the  dogs  up  at  the  house,  he  grew  calmer.  Never- 
theless, he  wondered  why  it  was  that  one  had  sometimes  to 
feel  responsible  for  the  behaviour  of  people  whose  natures  were 
wholly  antipathetic  to  one's  own. 


Ill 

THE  circus  was  on  Saturday.  The  next  morning1 
Claude  was  standing  at  his  dresser,  shaving.  His 
beard  was  already  strong,  a  shade  darker  than  his 
hair  and  not  so  red  as  his  skin.  His  eyebrows  and  long  lashes 
were  a  pale  corn-colour  —  made  his  blue  eyes  seem  lighter  than 
they  were,  and,  he  thought,  gave  a  look  of  shyness  and  weak- 
ness to  the  upper  part  of  his  face.  He  was  exactly  the  sort 
of  looking  boy  he  didn't  want  to  be.  He  especially  hated  his 
head, —  so  big  that  he  had  trouble  in  buying  his  hats,  and  un- 
compromisingly square  in  shape;  a  perfect  block-head.  His 
name  was  another  source  of  humiliation.  Claude:  it  was  a 
"chump"  name,  like  Elmer  and  Roy;  a  hayseed  name 
trying  to  be  fine.  In  country  schools  there  was  always  a  red- 
headed, warty-handed,  runny-nosed  little  boy  who  was  called 
Claude.  His  good  physique  he  took  for  granted ;  smooth,  mus- 
cular arms  and  legs,  and  strong  shoulders,  a  farmer  boy  might 
be  supposed  to  have.  Unfortunately  he  had  none  of  his  father's 
physical  repose,  and  his  strength  often  asserted  itself  inhar- 
moniously.  The  storms  that  went  on  in  his  mind  sometimes 
made  him  rise,  or  sit  down,  or  lift  something,  more  violently 
than  there  was  any  apparent  reason  for  his  doing. 

The  household  slept  late  on  Sunday  morning;  even  Ma- 
hailey  did  not  get  up  until  seven.  The  general  signal  for 
breakfast  was  the  smell  of  doughnuts  frying.  This  morning 
Ralph  rolled  out  of  bed  at  the  last  minute  and  callously  put  on 
his  clean  underwear  without  taking  a  bath.  This  cost  him 

17 


i8  One  of  Ours 


not  one  regret,  though  he  took  time  to  polish  his  new  ox-blood 
shoes  tenderly  with  a  pocket  handkerchief.  He  reached  the 
table  when  all  the  others  were  half  through  breakfast,  and 
made  his  peace  by  genially  asking  his  mother  if  she  didn't  want 
him  to  drive  her  to  church  in  the  car. 

"I'd  like  to  go  if  I  can  get  the  work  done  in  time,"  she  said, 
doubtfully  glancing  at  the  clock. 

"Can't  Mahailey  tend  to  things  for  you  this  morning?" 

Mrs.  Wheeler  hesitated.  "Everything  but  the  separator,  she 
can.  But  she  can't  fit  all  the  parts  together.  It's  a  good  deal 
of  work,  you  know." 

"Now,  Mother,"  said  Ralph  good-humouredly,  as  he  emptied 
the  syrup  pitcher  over  his  cakes,  "you're  prejudiced.  Nobody 
ever  thinks  of  skimming  milk  now-a-days.  Every  up-to-date 
farmer  uses  a  separator." 

Mrs.  Wheeler's  pale  eyes  twinkled.  "Mahailey  and  I  will 
never  be  quite  up-to-date,  Ralph.  We're  old-fashioned,  and  I 
don't  know  but  you'd  better  let  us  be.  I  could  see  the  advan- 
tage of  a  separator  if  we  milked  half-a-dozen  cows.  It's  a 
very  ingenious  machine.  But  it's  a  great  deal  more  work  to 
scald  it  and  fit  it  together  than  it  was  to  take  care  of  the  milk 
in  the  old  way." 

"It  won't  be  when  you  get  used  to  it,"  Ralph  assured  her. 
He  was  the  chief  mechanic  of  the  Wheeler  farm,  and  when  the 
farm  implements  and  the  automobiles  did  not  give  him  enough 
to  do,  he  went  to  town  and  bought  machines  for  the  house.  As 
soon  as  Mahailey  got  used  to  a  washing-machine  or  a  churn, 
Ralph,  to  keep  up  with  the  bristling  march  of  events,  brought 
home  a  still  newer  one.  The  mechanical  dish-washer  she  had 
never  been  able  to  use,  and  patent  flat-irons  and  oil-stoves 
drove  her  wild. 


On  Lovely   Creek  19 

Claude  told  his  mother  to  go  upstairs  and  dress;  he  would 
scald  the  separator  while  Ralph  got  the  car  ready.  He  was 
still  working  at  it  when  his  brother  came  in  from  the  garage  to 
wash  his  hands. 

"You  really  oughtn't  to  load  mother  up  with  things  like  this, 
Ralph,"  he  exclaimed  fretfully.  "Did  you  ever  try  washing 
this  damned  thing  yourself  ?" 

"Of  course  I  have.  If  Mrs.  Dawson  can  manage  it,  I  should 
think  mother  could." 

"Mrs.  Dawson  is  a  younger  woman.  Anyhow,  there's  no 
point  in  trying  to  make  machinists  of  Mahailey  and  mother." 

Ralph  lifted  his  eyebrows  to  excuse  Claude's  bluntness. 
"See  here,"  he  said  persuasively,  "don't  you  go  encouraging  her 
into  thinking  she  can't  change  her  ways.  Mother's  entitled  to 
all  the  labour-saving  devices  we  can  get  her." 

Claude  rattled  the  thirty-odd  graduated  metal  funnels  which 
he  was  trying  to  fit  together  in  their  proper  sequence.  "Well, 
if  this  is  labour-saving — — 

The  younger  boy  giggled  and  ran  upstairs  for  his  panama 
hat.  He  never  quarrelled.  Mrs.  Wheeler  sometimes  said  it 
was  wonderful,  how  much  Ralph  would  take  from  Claude. 

After  Ralph  and  his  mother  had  gone  off  in  the  car,  Mr. 
Wheeler  drove  to  see  his  German  neighbour,  Gus  Yoeder,  who 
had  just  bought  a  blooded  bull.  Dan  and  Jerry  were  pitching 
horseshoes  down  behind  the  barn.  Claude  told  Mahailey  he 
was  going  to  the  cellar  to  put  up  the  swinging  shelf  she  had 
been  wanting,  so  that  the  rats  couldn't  get  at  her  vegetables. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Claude.  I  don't  know  what  does  make 
the  rats  so  bad.  The  cats  catches  one  most  every  day,  too." 

"I  guess  they  come  up  from  the  barn.  I've  got  a  nice  wide 
board  down  at  the  garage  for  your  shelf." 


2O  One  of  Ours 


The  cellar  was  cemented,  cool  and  dry,  with  deep  closets 
for  canned  fruit  and  flour  and  groceries,  bins  for  coal  and 
cobs,  and  a  dark-room  full  of  photographer's  apparatus. 
Claude  took  his  place  at  the  carpenter's  bench  under  one  of 
the  square  windows.  Mysterious  objects  stood  about  him  in 
the  grey  twilight;  electric  batteries,  old  bicycles  and  type- 
writers, a  machine  for  making  cement  fence-posts,  a  vul- 
canizer,  a  stereoptican  with  a  broken  lens.  The  mechanical 
toys  Ralph  could  not  operate  successfully,  as  well  as  those  he 
had  got  tired  of,  were  stored  away  here.  If  they  were  left  in 
the  barn,  Mr.  Wheeler  saw  them  too  often,  and  sometimes, 
when  they  happened  to  be  in  his  way,  he  made  sarcastic  com- 
ments. Claude  had  begged  his  mother  to  let  him  pile  this 
lumber  into  a  wagon  and  dump  it  into  some  washout  hole 
along  the  creek;  but  Mrs.  Wheeler  said  he  must  not  think 
of  such  a  thing,  as  it  would  hurt  Ralph's  feelings  very  much. 
Nearly  every  time  Claude  went  into  the  cellar,  he  made  a 
desperate  resolve  to  clear  the  place  out  some  day,  reflecting 
bitterly  that  the  money  this  wreckage  cost  would  have  put  a 
boy  through  college  decently. 

While  Claude  was  planing  off  the  board  he  meant  to  suspend 
from  the  joists,  Mahailey  left  her  work  and  came  down  to 
watch  him.  She  made  some  pretence  of  hunting  for  pickled 
onions,  then  seated  herself  upon  a  cracker  box;  close  at  hand 
there  was  a  plush  "spring-rocker"  with  one  arm  gone,  but  it 
wouldn't  have  been  her  idea  of  good  manners  to  sit  there. 
Her  eyes  had  a  kind  of  sleepy  contentment  in  them  as  she 
followed  Claude's  motions.  She  watched  him  as  if  he  were  a 
baby  playing.  Her  hands  lay  comfortably  in  her  lap. 

"Mr.  Ernest  ain't  been  over  for  a  long  time.  He  ain't  mad 
about  nothin',  is  he?" 


On  Lovely  Creek  21 

"Oh,  no!  He's  awful  busy  this  summer.  I  saw  him  in 
town  yesterday.  We  went  to  the  circus  together." 

Mahailey  smiled  and  nodded.  "That's  nice.  I'm  glad  for 
you  two  boys  to  have  a  good  time.  Mr.  Ernest's  a  nice  boy ; 
I  always  liked  him  first  rate.  He's  a  little  feller,  though.  He 
ain't  big  like  you,  is  he?  I  guess  he  ain't  as  tall  as  Mr.  Ralph, 
even." 

"Not  quite,"  said  Claude  between  strokes.  "He's  strong, 
though,  and  gets  through  a  lot  of  work." 

"Oh,  I  know !  I  know  he  is.  I  know  he  works  hard.  All 
them  foreigners  works  hard,  don't  they,  Mr.  Claude?  I 
reckon  he  liked  the  circus.  Maybe  they  don't  have  circuses 
like  our'n,  over  where  he  come  from." 

Claude  began  to  tell  her  about  the  clown  elephant  and  the 
trained  dogs,  and  she  sat  listening  to  him  with  her  pleased, 
foolish  smile;  there  was  something  wise  and  far-seeing  about 
her  smile,  too. 

Mahailey  had  come  to  them  long  ago,  when  Claude  was  only 
a  few  months  old.  She  had  been  brought  West  by  a  shiftless 
Virginia  family  which  went  to  pieces  and  scattered  under  the 
rigours  of  pioneer  farm-life.  When  the  mother  of  the  family 
died,  there  was  nowhere  for  Mahailey  to  go,  and  Mrs.  Wheeler 
took  her  in.  Mahailey  had  no  one  to  take  care  of  her,  and 
Mrs.  Wheeler  had  no  one  to  help  her  with  the  work;  it  had 
turned  out  very  well. 

Mahailey  had  had  a  hard  life  in  her  young  days, 
married  to  a  savage  mountaineer  who  often  abused  her  and 
never  provided  for  her.  She  could  remember  times  when  she 
sat  in  the  cabin,  beside  an  empty  meal-barrel  and  a  cold  iron 
pot,  waiting  for  "him"  to  bring  home  a  squirrel  he  had  shot 
or  a  chicken  he  had  stolen.  Too  often  he  brought  nothing  but 


22  One  of  Ours 


a  jug  of  mountain  whiskey  and  a  pair  of  brutal  fists.  She 
thought  herself  well  off  now,  never  to  have  to  beg  for  food 
or  go  off  into  the  woods  to  gather  firing,  to  be  sure  of  a  warm 
bed  and  shoes  and  decent  clothes.  Mahailey  was  one  of  eight- 
een children;  most  of  them  grew  up  lawless  or  half-witted, 
and  two  of  her  brothers,  like  her  husband,  ended  their  lives 
in  jail.  She  had  never  been  sent  to  school,  and  could  not 
read  or  write.  Claude,  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  tried  to 
teach  her  to  read,  but  what  she  learned  one  night  she  had 
forgotten  by  the  next.  She  could  count,  and  tell  the  time  of 
day  by  the  clock,  and  she  was  very  proud  of  knowing  the 
alphabet  and  of  being  able  to  spell  out  letters  on  the  flour  sacks 
and  coffee  packages.  "That's  a  big  A,"  she  would  murmur, 
"and  that  there's  a  little  a." 

Mahailey  was  shrewd  in  her  estimate  of  people,  and  Claude 
thought  her  judgment  sound  in  a  good  many  things.  He  knew 
she  sensed  all  the  shades  of  personal  feeling,  the  accords  and 
antipathies  in  the  household,  as  keenly  as  he  did,  and  he  would 
have  hated  to  lose  her  good  opinion.  She  consulted  him  in  all 
her  little  difficulties.  If  the  leg  of  the  kitchen  table  got  wob- 
bly, she  knew  he  would  put  in  new  screws  for  her.  When 
she  broke  a  handle  off  her  rolling  pin,  he  put  on  another,  and 
he  fitted  a  haft  to  her  favourite  butcher-knife  after  every 
one  else  said  it  must  be  thrown  away.  These  objects,  after 
they  had  been  mended,  acquired  a  new  value  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  liked  to  work  with  them.  When  Claude  helped  her  lift  or 
carry  anything,  he  never  avoided  touching  her, —  this  she  felt 
deeply.  She  suspected  that  Ralph  was  a  little  ashamed 
of  her,  and  would  prefer  to  have  some  brisk  young  thing 
about  the  kitchen. 

On  days  like  this,  when  other  people  were  not  about,  Ma- 


On  Lovely  Creek  23 

hailey  liked  to  talk  to  Claude  about  the  things  they  did  together 
when  he  was  little;  the  Sundays  when  they  used  to  wander 
along  the  creek,  hunting  for  wild  grapes  and  watching  the 
red  squirrels;  or  trailed  across  the  high  pastures  to  a  wild- 
plum  thicket  at  the  north  end  of  the  Wheeler  farm.  Claude 
could  remember  warm  spring  days  when  the  plum  bushes  were 
all  in  blossom  and  Mahailey  used  to  lie  down  under  them  and 
sing  to  herself,  as  if  the  honey-heavy  sweetness  made  her 
drowsy;  songs  without  words,  for  the  most  part,  though  he 
recalled  one  mountain  dirge  which  said  over  and  over,  "And 
they  laid  Jesse  James  in  his  grave." 


IV 

THE  time  was  approaching  for  Claude  to  go  back  to 
the   struggling   denominational   college   on   the   out- 
skirts of   the  state   capital,   where   he  had   already 
spent  two  dreary  and  unprofitable  winters. 

"Mother,"  he  said  one  morning  when  he  had  an  opportunity 
to  speak  to  her  alone,  "I  wish  you  would  let  me  quit  the 
Temple,  and  go  to  the  State  University." 

She  looked  up  from  the  mass  of  dough  she  was  kneading. 

"But  why,  Claude?" 

"Well,  I  could  learn  more,  for  one  thing.  The  professors 
at  the  Temple  aren't  much  good.  Most  of  them  are  just 
preachers  who  couldn't  make  a  living  at  preaching." 

The  look  of  pain  that  always  disarmed  Claude  came  instantly 
into  his  mother's  face.  "Son,  don't  say  such  things.  I  can't 
believe  but  teachers  are  more  interested  in  their  students  when 
they  are  concerned  for  their  spiritual  development,  as  well  as  the 
mental.  Brother  Weldon  said  many  of  the  professors  at  the 
State  University  are  not  Christian  men ;  they  even  boast  of  it, 
in  some  cases." 

"Oh,  I  guess  most  of  them,  are  good  men,  all  right;  at  any 
rate  they  know  their  subjects.  These  little  pin-headed  preach- 
ers like  Weldon  do  a  lot  of  harm,  running  about  the  country 
talking.  He's  sent  around  to  pull  in  students  for  his  own 
school.  If  he  didn't  get  them  he'd  lose  his  job.  I  wish  he'd 
never  got  me.  Most  of  the  fellows  who  flunk  out  at  the  State 
come  to  us,  just  as  he  did." 

24 


On  Lovely  Creek  2$ 

"But  how  can  there  be  any  serious  study  where  they  give  so 
much  time  to  athletics  and  frivolity?  They  pay  their  football 
coach  a  larger  salary  than  their  Chancellor.  And  those  frater- 
nity houses  are  places  where  boys  learn  all  sorts  of  evil.  I've 
heard  that  dreadful  things  go  on  in  them  sometimes.  Besides, 
it  would  take  more  money,  and  you  couldn't  live  as  cheaply  as 
you  do  at  the  Chapins'." 

Claude  made  no  reply.  He  stood  before  her  frowning  and 
pulling  at  a  calloused  spot  on  the  inside  of  his  palm.  Mrs. 
Wheeler  looked  at  him  wistfully.  "I'm  sure  you  must  be  able 
to  study  better  in  a  quiet,  serious  atmosphere,"  she  said. 

He  sighed  and  turned  away.  If  his  mother  had  been  the 
least  bit  unctuous,  like  Brother  Weldon,  he  could  have  told  her 
many  enlightening  facts.  But  she  was  so  trusting  and  child- 
like, so  faithful  by  nature  and  so  ignorant  of  life  as  he  knew 
it,  that  it  was  hopeless  to  argue  with  her.  He  could  shock  her 
and  make  her  fear  the  world  even  more  than  she  did,  but  he 
could  never  make  her  understand. 

His  mother  was  old-fashioned.  She  thought  dancing  and 
card-playing  dangerous  pastimes  —  only  rough  people  did  such 
things  when  she  was  a  girl  in  Vermont  —  and  "worldliness"  only 
another  word  for  wickedness.  According  to  her  conception  of 
education,  one  should  learn,  not  think ;  and  above  all,  one  must 
not  enquire.  The  history  of  the  human  race,  as  it  lay  behind 
one,  was  already  explained ;  and  so  was  its  destiny,  which  lay 
before.  The  mind  should  remain  obediently  within  the  theo- 
logical concept  of  history. 

Nat  Wheeler  didn't  care  where  his  son  went  to  school,  but 
he,  too,  took  it  for  granted  that  the  religious  institution  was 
cheaper  than  the  State  University ;  and  that  because  the  students 
there  looked  shabbier  they  were  less  likely  to  become  too 


26  One  of  Ours 


knowing,  and  to  be  offensively  intelligent  at  home.  However, 
he  referred  the  matter  to  Bayliss  one  day  when  he  was  in 
town. 

"Claude's  got  some  notion  he  wants  to  go  to  the  State  Uni- 
versity this  winter." 

Bayliss  at  once  assumed  that  wise,  better-be-prepared-for- 
the-worst  expression  which  had  made  him  seem  shrewd  and 
seasoned  from  boyhood.  "I  don't  see  any  point  in  changing 
unless  he's  got  good  reasons." 

"Well,  he  thinks  that  bunch  of  parsons  at  the  Temple  don't 
make  first-rate  teachers." 

"I  expect  they  can  teach  Claude  quite  a  bit  yet.  If  he  gets 
in  with  that  fast  football  crowd  at  the  State,  there'll  be  no  hold- 
ing him."  For  some  reason  Bayliss  detested  football.  "This 
athletic  business  is  a  good  deal  over-done.  If  Claude  wants 
exercise,  he  might  put  in  the  fall  wheat." 

That  night  Mr.  Wheeler  brought  the  subject  up  at  supper, 
questioned  Claude,  and  tried  to  get  at  the  cause  of  his  discon- 
tent. His  manner  was  jocular,  as  usual,  and  Claude  hated 
any  public  discussion  of  his  personal  affairs.  He  was  afraid 
of  his  father's  humour  when  it  got  too  near  him. 

Claude  might  have  enjoyed  the  large  and  somewhat  gross 
cartoons  with  which  Mr.  Wheeler  enlivened  daily  life,  had 
they  been  of  any  other  authorship.  But  he  unreasonably  wanted 
his  father  to  be  the  most  dignified,  as  he  was  certainly  the  hand- 
somest and  most  intelligent,  man  in  the  community.  Moreover, 
Claude  couldn't  bear  ridicule  very  well.  He  squirmed  before 
he  was  hit ;  saw  it  coming,  invited  it.  Mr.  Wheeler  had  ob- 
served this  trait  in  him  when  he  was  a  little  chap,  called  it  false 
pride,  and  often  purposely  outraged  his  feelings  to  harden  him, 
as  he  had  hardened  Claude's  mother,  who  was  afraid  of 


On  Lovely   Creek  27 

everything  but  schoolbooks  and  prayer-meetings  when  he  first 
married  her.  She  was  still  more  or  less  bewildered,  but  she  had 
long  ago  got  over  any  fear  of  him  and  any  dread  of  living  with 
him.  She  accepted  everything  about  her  husband  as  part  of 
his  rugged  masculinity,  and  of  that  she  was  proud,  in  her 
quiet  way. 

Claude  had  never  quite  forgiven  his  father  for  some  of  his 
practical  jokes.  One  warm  spring  day,  when  he  was  a  boister- 
ous little  boy  of  five,  playing  in  and  out  of  the  house,  he 
heard  his  mother  entreating  Mr.  Wheeler  to  go  down  to  the 
orchard  and  pick  the  cherries  from  a  tree  that  hung  loaded. 
Claude  remembered  that  she  persisted  rather  complainingly, 
saying  that  the  cherries  were  too  high  for  her  to  reach,  and  that 
even  if  she  had  a  ladder  it  would  hurt  her  back.  Mr.  Wheeler 
was  always  annoyed  if  his  wife  referred  to  any  physical  weak- 
ness, especially  if  she  complained  about  her  back.  He  got  up 
and  went  out.  After  a  while  he  returned.  "All  right  now, 
Evangeline,"  he  called  cheerily  as  he  passed  through  the  kitchen. 
"Cherries  won't  give  you  any  trouble.  You  and  Claude  can 
run  along  and  pick  'em  as  easy  as  can  be." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  trustfully  put  on  her  sunbonnet,  gave  Claude 
a  little  pail  and  took  a  big  one  herself,  and  they  went  down  the 
pasture  hill  to  the  orchard,  fenced  in  on  the  low  land  by  the 
creek.  The  ground  had  been  ploughed  that  spring  to  make  it 
hold  moisture,  and  Claude  was  running  happily  along  in  one  of 
the  furrows,  when  he  looked  up  and  beheld  a  sight  he  could 
never  forget.  The  beautiful,  round-topped  cherry  tree,  full  of 
green  leaves  and  red  fruit, —  his  father  had  sawed  it  through! 
It  lay  on  the  ground  beside  its  bleeding  stump.  With  one 
scream  Claude  became  a  little  demon.  He  threw  away  his  tin 
pail,  jumped  about  howling  and  kicking  the  loose  earth  with  his 


28  One  of  Ours 


copper-toed  shoes,  until  his  mother  was  much  more  concerned 
for  him  than  for  the  tree. 

"Son,  son,"  she  cried,  "it's  your  father's  tree.  He  has  a  per- 
fect right  to  cut  it  down  if  he  wants  to.  He's  often  said  the 
trees  were  too  thick  in  here.  Maybe  it  will  be  better  for  the 
others." 

"'Tain't  so!  He's  a  damn  fool,  damn  fool!"  Claude 
bellowed,  still  hopping  and  kicking,  almost  choking  with  rage 
and  hate. 

His  mother  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  him.  "Claude,  stop ! 
I'd  rather  have  the  whole  orchard  cut  down  than  hear  you  say 
such  things." 

After  she  got  him  quieted  they  picked  the  cherries  and  went 
back  to  the  house.  Claude  had  promised  her  that  he  would  say 
nothing,  but  his  father  must  have  noticed  the  little  boy's  angry 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  all  through  dinner,  and  his  expression  of 
scorn.  Even  then  his  flexible  lips  were  only  too  well  adapted 
to  hold  the  picture  of  that  feeling.  For  days  afterwards 
Claude  went  down  to  the  orchard  and  watched  the  tree  grow 
sicker,  wilt  and  wither  away.  God  would  surely  punish  a  man 
who  could  do  that,  he  thought. 

A  violent  temper  and  physical  restlessness  were  the  most 
conspicuous  things  about  Claude  when  he  was  a  little  boy. 
Ralph  was  docile,  and  had  a  precocious  sagacity  for  keeping 
out  of  trouble.  Quiet  in  manner,  he  was  fertile  in  devising 
mischief,  and  easily  persuaded  his  older  brother,  who  was  al- 
ways looking  for  something  to  do,  to  execute  his  plans.  It 
was  usually  Claude  who  was  caught  red-handed.  Sitting  mild 
and  contemplative  on  his  quilt  on  the  floor,  Ralph  would  whis- 
per to  Claude  that  it  might  be  amusing  to  climb  up  and  take 
the  clock  from  the  shelf,  or  to  operate  the  sewing-machine. 


On  Lovely  Creek  29 

When  they  were  older,  and  played  out  of  doors,  he  had  only  to 
insinuate  that  Claude  was  afraid,  to  make  him  try  a  frosted  axe 
with  his  tongue,  or  jump  from  the  shed  roof. 

The  usual  hardships  of  country  boyhood  were  not  enough  for 
Claude;  he  imposed  physical  tests  and  penances  upon  himself. 
Whenever  he  burned  his  finger,  he  followed  Mahailey's  advice 
and  held  his  hand  close  to  the  stove  to  "draw  out  the  fire."  One 
year  he  went  to  school  all  winter  in  his  jacket,  to  make  him- 
self tough.  His  mother  would  button  him  up  in  his  overcoat 
and  put  his  dinner-pail  in  his  hand  and  start  him  off.  As  soon 
as  he  got  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  he  pulled  off  his  coat,  rolled 
it  under  his  arm,  and  scudded  along  the  edge  of  the  frozen 
fields,  arriving  at  the  frame  schoolhouse  panting  and  shivering, 
but  very  well  pleased  with  himself. 


V 

CLAUDE  waited  for  his  elders  to  change  their  mind 
about  where  he  should  go  to  school ;  but  no  one  seemed 
much  concerned,  not  even  his  mother. 

Two  years  ago,  the  young  man  whom  Mrs.  Wheeler  called 
"Brother  Weldon"  had  come  out  from  Lincoln,  preaching  in 
little  towns  and  country  churches,  and  recruiting  students  for 
the  institution  at  which  he  taught  in  the  winter.  He  had  con- 
vinced Mrs.  Wheeler  that  his  college  was  the  safest  possible 
place  for  a  boy  who  was  leaving  home  for  the  first  time. 

Claude's  mother  was  not  discriminating  about  preachers. 
She  believed  them  all  chosen  and  sanctified,  and  was  never 
happier  than  when  she  had  one  in  the  house  to  cook  for  and 
wait  upon.  She  made  young  Mr.  Weldon  so  comfortable  that 
he  remained  under  her  roof  for  several  weeks,  occupying  the 
spare  room,  where  he  spent  the  mornings  in  study  and  medita- 
tion. He  appeared  regularly  at  mealtime  to  ask  a  blessing 
upon  the  food  and  to  sit  with  devout,  downcast  eyes  while  the 
chicken  was  being  dismembered.  His  top-shaped  head  hung 
a  little  to  one  side,  the  thin  hair  was  parted  precisely  over  his 
high  forehead  and  brushed  in  little  ripples.  He  was  soft- 
spoken  and  apologetic  in  manner  and  took  up  as  little  room  as 
possible.  His  meekness  amused  Mr.  Wheeler,  who  liked  to  ply 
him  with  food  and  never  failed  to  ask  him  gravely  "what  part 
of  the  chicken  he  would  prefer,"  in  order  to  hear  him  murmur, 
"A  little  of  the  white  meat,  if  you  please,"  while  he  drew  his 
elbows  close,  as  if  he  were  adroitly  sliding  over  a  dangerous 

30 


On  Lovely   Creek  31 

place.  In  the  afternoon  Brother  Weldon  usually  put  on  a  fresh 
lawn  necktie  and  a  hard,  glistening  straw  hat  which  left  a  red 
streak  across  his  forehead,  tucked  his  Bible  under  his  arm,  and 
went  out  to  make  calls.  If  he  went  far,  Ralph  took  him  in 
the  automobile. 

Claude  disliked  this  young  man  from  the  moment  he  first 
met  him,  and  could  scarcely  answer  him  civilly.  Mrs.  Wheeler, 
always  absent-minded,  and  now  absorbed  in  her  cherishing  care 
of  the  visitor,  did  not  notice  Claude's  scornful  silences  until 
Mahailey,  whom  such  things  never  escaped,  whispered  to  her 
over  the  stove  one  day :  "Mr.  Claude,  he  don't  like  the  preacher. 
He  just  ain't  got  no  use  fur  him,  but  don't  you  let  on." 

As  a  result  of  Brother  Weldon's  sojourn  at  the  farm,  Claude 
was  sent  to  the  Temple  College.  Claude  had  come  to  believe 
that  the  things  and  people  he  most  disliked  were  the  ones  that 
were  to  shape  his  destiny. 

When  the  second  week  of  September  came  round,  he  threw  a 
few  clothes  and  books  into  his  trunk  and  said  good-bye  to  his 
mother  and  Mahailey.  Ralph  took  him  into  Frankfort  to 
catch  the  train  for  Lincoln.  After  settling  himself  in  the  dirty 
day-coach,  Claude  fell  to  meditating  upon  his  prospects.  There 
was  a  Pullman  car  on  the  train,  but  to  take  a  Pullman  for  a 
daylight  journey  was  one  of  the  things  a  Wheeler  did  not  do. 

Claude  knew  that  he  was  going  back  to  the  wrong  school, 
that  he  was  wasting  both  time  and  money.  He  sneered  at  him- 
self for  his  lack  of  spirit.  If  he  had  to  do  with  strangers,  he 
told  himself,  he  could  take  up  his  case  and  fight  for  it.  He 
could  not  assert  himself  against  his  father  or  mother,  but  he 
could  be  bold  enough  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  Yet,  if  this 
were  true,  why  did  he  continue  to  live  with  the  tiresome 
Chapins  ? 


32  One  of  Ours 


The  Chapin  household  consisted  of  a  brother  and  sister. 
Edward  Chapin  was  a  man  of  twenty-six,  with  an  old,  wasted 
face, —  and  he  was  still  going  to  school,  studying  for  the  min- 
istry. His  sister  Annabelle  kept  house  for  him ;  that  is  to  say, 
she  did  whatever  housework  was  done.  The  brother  supported 
himself  and  his  sister  by  getting  odd  jobs  from  churches  and 
religious  societies;  he  "supplied"  the  pulpit  when  a  minister 
was  ill,  did  secretarial  work  for  the  college  and  the  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association.  Claude's  weekly  payment  for 
room  and  board,  though  a  small  sum,  was  very  necessary  to 
their  comfort. 

Chapin  had  been  going  to  the  Temple  College  for  four  years, 
and  it  would  probably  take  him  two  years  more  to  complete  the 
course.  He  conned  his  book  on  trolley-cars,  or  while  he  waited 
by  the  track  on  windy  corners,  and  studied  far  into  the  night. 
His  natural  stupidity  must  have  been  something  quite  out  of  the 
ordinary ;  after  years  of  reverential  study,  he  could  not  read  the 
Greek  Testament  without  a  lexicon  and  grammar  at  his  elbow. 
•He  gave  a  great  deal  of  time  to  the  practise  of  elocution  and 
oratory.  At  certain  hours  their  frail  domicile  —  it  had  been 
thinly  built  for  the  academic  poor  and  sat  upon  concrete  blocks 
in  lieu  of  a  foundation  —  re-echoed  with  his  hoarse,  overstrained 
voice,  declaiming  his  own  orations  or  those  of  Wendell  Phillips. 

Annabelle  Chapin  was  one  of  Claude's  classmates.  She  was 
not  as  dull  as  her  brother;  she  could  learn  a  conjugation  and 
recognize  the  forms  when  she  met  with  them  again.  But  she 
was  a  gushing,  silly  girl,  who  found  almost  everything  in  their 
grubby  life  too  good  to  be  true;  and  she  was,  unfortunately, 
sentimental  about  Claude.  Annabelle  chanted  her  lessons  over 
and  over  to  herself  while  she  cooked  and  scrubbed.  She  was 
one  of  those  people  who  can  make  the  finest  things  seem  tame 


On  Lovely   Creek  33 

and  flat  merely  by  alluding  to  them.  Last  winter  she  had  re- 
cited the  odes  of  Horace  about  the  house  —  it  was  exactly  her 
notion  of  the  student-like  thing  to  do  —  until  Claude  feared  he 
would  always  associate  that  poet  with  the  heaviness  of  hur- 
riedly prepared  luncheons. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  liked  to  feel  that  Claude  was  assisting  this 
worthy  pair  in  their  struggle  for  an  education;  but  he  had 
long  ago  decided  that  since  neither  of  the  Chapins  got  any- 
thing out  of  their  efforts  but  a  kind  of  messy  inefficiency,  the 
struggle  might  better  have  been  relinquished  in  the  beginning. 
He  took  care  of  his  own  room;  kept  it  bare  and  habitable, 
free  from  Annabelle's  attentions  and  decorations.  But  the 
flimsy  pretences  of  light-housekeeping  were  very  distasteful  to 
him.  He  was  born  with  a  love  of  order,  just  as  he  was  born 
with  red  hair.  It  was  a  personal  attribute. 

The  boy  felt  bitterly  about  the  way  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up,  and  about  his  hair  and  his  freckles  and  his  awk- 
wardness. When  he  went  to  the  theatre  in  Lincoln,  he  took  a 
seat  in  the  gallery,  because  he  knew  that  he  looked  like  a  green 
country  boy.  His  clothes  were  never  right.  He  bought  collars 
that  were  too  high  and  neckties  that  were  too  bright,  and  hid 
them  away  in  his  trunk.  His  one  experiment  with  a  tailor  was 
unsuccessful.  The  tailor  saw  at  once  that  his  stammering  client 
didn't  know  what  he  wanted,  so  he  persuaded  him  that  as  the 
season  was  spring  he  needed  light  checked  trousers  and  a  blue 
serge  coat  and  vest.  When  Claude  wore  his  new  clothes  to 
St.  Paul's  church  on  Sunday  morning,  the  eyes  of  every  one  he 
met  followed  his  smart  legs  down  the  street.  For  the  next 
week  he  observed  the  legs  of  old  men  and  young,  and  decided 
there  wasn't  another  pair  of  checked  pants  in  Lincoln.  He 
hung  his  new  clothes  up  in  his  closet  and  never  put  them  on 


34  One  of  Ours 


again,  though  Annabelle  Chapin  watched  for  them  wistfully. 
Nevertheless,  Claude  thought  he  could  recognize  a  well- 
dressed  man  when  he  saw  one.  He  even  thought  he  could 
recognize  a  well-dressed  woman.  If  an  attractive  woman  got 
into  the  street  car  when  he  was  on  his  way  to  or  from  Temple 
Place,  he  was  distracted  between  the  desire  to  look  at  her  and 
the  wish  to  seem  indifferent 

Claude  is  on  his  way  back  to  Lincoln,  with  a  fairly  liberal 
allowance  which  does  not  contribute  much  to  his  comfort  or 
pleasure.  He  has  no  friends  or  instructors  whom  he  can  re- 
gard with  admiration,  though  the  need  to  admire  is  just  now 
uppermost  in  his  nature.  He  is  convinced  that  the  people  who 
might  mean  something  to  him  will  always  misjudge  him  and 
pass  him  by.  He  is  not  so  much  afraid  of  loneliness  as  he  is 
of  accepting  cheap  substitutes;  of  making  excuses  to  himself 
for  a  teacher  who  flatters  him,  of  waking  up  some  morning  to 
find  himself  admiring  a  girl  merely  because  she  is  accessible. 
He  has  a  dread  of  easy  compromises,  and  he  is  terribly  afraid 
of  being  fooled. 


VI 

THREE  months  later,  on  a  grey  December  day,  Claude 
was  seated  in  the  passenger  coach  of  an  accommoda- 
tion freight  train,  going  home  for  the  holidays.  He 
had  a  pile  of  books  on  the  seat  beside  him  and  was  reading, 
when  the  train  stopped  with  a  jerk  that  sent  the  volumes 
tumbling  to  the  floor.  He  picked  them  up  and  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  noon.  The  freight  would  lie  here  for  an  hour 
or  more,  until  the  east-bound  passenger  went  by.  Claude  left 
the  car  and  walked  slowly  up  the  platform  toward  the  station. 
A  bundle  of  little  spruce  trees  had  been  flung  off  near  the 
freight  office,  and  sent  a  smell  of  Christmas  into  the  cold 
air.  A  few  drays  stood  about,  the  horses  blanketed.  The 
steam  from  the  locomotive  made  a  spreading,  deep-violet  stain 
as  it  curled  up  against  the  grey  sky. 

Claude  went  into  a  restaurant  across  the  street  and  ordered 
an  oyster  stew.  The  proprietress,  a  plump  little  German  wo- 
man with  a  frizzed  bang,  always  remembered  him  from  trip  to 
trip.  While  he  was  eating  his  oysters  she  told  him  that  she 
had  just  finished  roasting  a  chicken  with  sweet  potatoes,  and  if 
he  liked  he  could  have  the  first  brown  cut  off  the  breast  before 
the  train-men  came  in  for  dinner.  Asking  her  to  bring  it 
along,  he  waited,  sitting  on  a  stool,  his  boots  on  the  lead-pipe 
foot-rest,  his  elbows  on  the  shiny  brown  counter,  staring  at  a 
pyramid  of  tough  looking  bun-sandwiches  under  a  glass  globe. 

"I  been  lookin'  for  you  every  day,"  said  Mrs.  Voigt  when 
she  brought  his  plate.  "I  put  plenty  good  gravy  on  dem  sweet 
pertaters,  ja." 

35 


36  One  of  Ours 


"Thank  you.  You  must  be  popular  with  your  boarders." 
She  giggled.  "Ja,  all  de  train  men  is  friends  mit  me.  Some- 
times dey  bring  me  a  liddle  Sweitzerkase  from  one  of  dem  big 
saloons  in  Omaha  what  de  Cherman  beobles  batronize.  I  ain't 
got  no  boys  mein  own  self,  so  I  got  to  fix  up  liddle  tings  for 
dem  boys,  eh  ?" 

She  stood  nursing  her  stumpy  hands  under  her  apron,  watch- 
ing every  mouthful  he  ate  so  eagerly  that  she  might  have 
been  tasting  it  herself.  The  train  crew  trooped  in,  shouting 
to  her  and  asking  what  there  was  for  dinner,  and  she  ran 
about  like  an  excited  little  hen,  chuckling  and  cackling.  Claude 
wondered  whether  working-men  were  as  nice  as  that  to  old 
women  the  world  over.  He  didn't  believe  so.  He  liked  to 
think  that  such  geniality  was  common  only  in  what  he  broadly 
called  "the  West."  He  bought  a  big  cigar,  and  strolled  up 
and  down  the  platform,  enjoying  the  fresh  air  until  the 
passenger  whistled  in. 

After  his  freight  train  got  under  steam  he  did  not  open  his 
books  again,  but  sat  looking  out  at  the  grey  homesteads  as  they 
unrolled  before  him,  with  their  stripped,  dry  cornfields,  and  the 
great  ploughed  stretches  where  the  winter  wheat  was  asleep. 
A  starry  sprinkling  of  snow  lay  like  hoar-frost  along  the 
crumbly  ridges  between  the  furrows. 

Claude  believed  he  knew  almost  every  farm  between  Frank- 
fort and  Lincoln,  he  had  made  the  journey  so  often,  on  fast 
trains  and  slow.  He  went  home  for  all  the  holidays,  and  had 
been  again  and  again  called  back  on  various  pretexts ;  when  his 
mother  was  sick,  when  Ralph  overturned  the  car  and  broke  his 
shoulder,  when  his  father  was  kicked  by  a  vicious  stallion.  It 
was  not  a  Wheeler  custom  to  employ  a  nurse ;  if  any  one  in 


On  Lovely  Creek  37 

the  household  was  ill,  it  was  understood  that  some  member 
of  the  family  would  act  in  that  capacity. 

Claude  was  reflecting  upon  the  fact  that  he  had  never  gone 
home  before  in  such  good  spirits.  Two  fortunate  things  had 
happened  to  him  since  he  went  over  this  road  three  months  ago. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  Lincoln  in  September,  he  had  matric- 
ulated at  the  State  University  for  special  work  in  European 
History.  The  year  before  he  had  heard  the  head  of  the  depart- 
ment lecture  for  some  charity,  and  resolved  that  even  if  he  were 
not  allowed  to  change  his  college,  he  would  manage  to  study 
under  that  man.  The  course  Claude  selected  was  one  upon 
which  a  student  could  put  as  much  time  as  he  chose.  It  was 
based  upon  the  reading  of  historical  sources,  and  the  Professor 
was  notoriously  greedy  for  full  notebooks.  Claude's  were  of 
the  fullest.  He  worked  early  and  late  at  the  University  Li- 
brary, often  got  his  supper  in  town  and  went  back  to  read  until 
closing  hour.  For  the  first  time  he  was  studying  a  subject 
which  seemed  to  him  vital,  which  had  to  do  with  events  and 
ideas,  instead  of  with  lexicons  and  grammars.  How  often  he 
had  wished  for  Ernest  during  the  lectures!  He  could  see 
Ernest  drinking  them  up,  agreeing  or  dissenting  in  his  inde- 
pendent way.  The  class  was  very  large,  and  the  Professor 
spoke  without  notes, —  he  talked  rapidly,  as  if  he  were  address- 
ing his  equals,  with  none  of  the  coaxing  persuasiveness  to 
which  Temple  students  were  accustomed.  His  lectures  were 
condensed  like  a  legal  brief,  but  there  was  a  kind  of  dry  fervour 
in  his  voice,  and  when  he  occasionally  interrupted  his  exposi- 
tion with  purely  personal  comment,  it  seemed  valuable  and 
important. 

Claude  usually  came  out  from  these  lectures  with  the  feeling 


38  One  of  Ours 


that  the  world  was  full  of  stimulating  things,  and  that  one  was 
fortunate  to  be  alive  and  to  be  able  to  find  out  about  them. 
His  reading  that  autumn  actually  made  the  future  look  brighter 
to  him;  seemed  to  promise. him  something.  One  of  his  chief 
difficulties  had  always  been  that  he  could  not  make  himself  be- 
lieve in  the  importance  of  making  money  or  spending  it.  If 
that  were  all,  then  life  was  not  worth  the  trouble. 

The  second  good  thing  that  had  befallen  him  was  that  he 
had  got  to  know  some  people  he  liked.  This  came  about  ac- 
cidentally, after  a  football  game  between  the  Temple  eleven  and 
the  State  University  team  —  merely  a  practice  game  for  the 
latter.  Claude  was  playing  half-back  with  the  Temple.  To- 
ward the  close  of  the  first  quarter,  he  followed  his  interference 
safely  around  the  right  end,  dodged  a  tackle  which  threatened 
to  end  the  play,  and  broke  loose  for  a  ninety-yard  run  down 
the  field  for  a  touchdown.  He  brought  his  eleven  off  with  a 
good  showing.  The  State  men  congratulated  him  warmly,  and 
their  coach  went  so  far  as  to  hint  that  if  he  ever  wanted  to 
make  a  change,  there  would  be  a  place  for  him  on  the  Uni- 
versity team. 

Claude  had  a  proud  moment,  but  even  while  coach  Ball- 
inger  was  talking  to  him,  the  Temple  students  rushed  howl- 
ing from  the  grandstand,  and  Annabelle  Chapin,  ridiculous  in 
a  sport  suit  of  her  own  construction,  bedecked  with  the  Temple 
colours  and  blowing  a  child's  horn,  positively  threw  herself 
upon  his  neck.  He  disengaged  himself,  not  very  gently,  and 
stalked  grimly  away  to  the  dressing  shed.  .  .  .  What  was  the 
use,  if  you  were  always  with  the  wrong  crowd  ? 

Julius  Erlich,  who  played  quarter  on  the  State  team,  took 
him  aside  and  said  affably :  "Come  home  to  supper  with  me  to- 
night, Wheeler,  and  meet  my  mother.  Come  along  with  us  and 


On  Lovely   Creek  39 

dress  in  the  Armory.  You  have  your  clothes  in  your  suitcase, 
haven't  you?" 

"They're  hardly  clothes  to  go  visiting  in,"  Claude  replied 
doubtfully. 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter !  We're  all  boys  at  home.  Mother 
wouldn't  mind  if  you  came  in  your  track  things." 

Claude  consented  before  he  had  time  to  frighten  himself  by 
imagining  difficulties.  The  Erlich  boy  often  sat  next  him  in 
the  history  class,  and  they  had  several  times  talked  together. 
Hitherto  Claude  had  felt  that  he  "couldn't  make  Erlich  out," 
but  this  afternoon,  while  they  dressed  after  their  shower, 
they  became  good  friends,  all  in  a  few  minutes.  Claude  was 
perhaps  less  tied-up  in  mind  and  body  than  usual.  He  was  so 
astonished  at  finding  himself  on  easy,  confidential  terms  with 
Erlich  that  he  scarcely  gave  a  thought  to  his  second-day  shirt 
and  his  collar  with  a  broken  edge, —  wretched  economies  he  had 
been  trained  to  observe. 

They  had  not  walked  more  than  two  blocks  from  the 
Armory  when  Julius  turned  in  at  a  rambling  wooden  house 
with  an  unfenced,  terraced  lawn.  He  led  Claude  around  to  the 
wing,  and  through  a  glass  door  into  a  big  room  that  was  all 
windows  on  three  sides,  above  the  wainscoting.  The  room 
was  full  of  boys  and  young  men,  seated  on  long  divans  or 
perched  on  the  arms  of  easy  chairs,  and  they  were  all  talking 
at  once.  On  one  of  the  couches  a  young  man  in  a  smoking 
jacket  lay  reading  as  composedly  as  if  he  were  alone. 

"Five  of  these  are  my  brothers,"  said  his  host,  "and  the 
rest  are  friends." 

The  company  recognized  Claude  and  included  him  in  their 
talk  about  the  game.  When  the  visitors  had  gone,  Julius  in- 
troduced his  brothers.  They  were  all  nice  boys,  Claude 


40  One  of  Ours 


thought,  and  had  easy,  agreeable  manners.  The  three  older 
ones  were  in  business,  but  they  too  had  been  to  the  game  that 
afternoon.  Claude  had  never  before  seen  brothers  who  were 
so  outspoken  and  frank  with  one  another.  To  him  they  were 
very  cordial;  the  one  who  was  lying  down  came  forward  to 
shake  hands,  keeping  the  place  in  his  book  with  his  finger. 

On  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  were  pipes  and  boxes 
of  tobacco,  cigars  in  a  glass  jar,  and  a  big  Chinese  bowl  full 
of  cigarettes.  This  provisionment  seemed  the  more  remark- 
able to  Claude  because  at  home  he  had  to  smoke  in  the  cow- 
shed. The  number  of  books  astonished  him  almost  as  much; 
the  wainscoting  all  around  the  room  was  built  up  in  open 
bookcases,  stuffed  with  volumes  fat  and  thin,  and  they  all 
looked  interesting  and  hard-used.  One  of  the  brothers  had 
been  to  a  party  the  night  before,  and  on  coming  home  had 
put  his  dress-tie  about  the  neck  of  a  little  plaster  bust  of  Byron 
that  stood  on  the  mantel.  This  head,  with  the  tie  at  a  rakish 
angle,  drew  Claude's  attention  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
room,  and  for  some  reason  instantly  made  him  wish  he  lived 
there. 

Julius  brought  in  his  mother,  and  when  they  went  to  supper 
Claude  was  seated  beside  her  at  one  end  of  the  long  table. 
Mrs.  Erlich  seemed  to  him  very  young  to  be  the  head  of  such 
a  family.  Her  hair  was  still  brown,  and  she  wore  it  drawn 
over  her  ears  and  twisted  in  two  little  horns,  like  the  ladies 
in  old  daguerreotypes.  Her  face,  too,  suggested  a  daguerreo- 
type; there  was  something  old-fashioned  and  picturesque 
about  it.  Her  skin  had  the  soft  whiteness  of  white  flowers 
that  have  been  drenched  by  rain.  She  talked  with  quick  ges- 
tures, and  her  decided  little  nod  was  quaint  and  very  personal. 
Her  hazel-coloured  eyes  peered  expectantly  over  her  nose- 


On  Lovely   Creek  41 

glasses,  always  watching  to  see  things  turn  out  wonderfully 
well;  always  looking  for  some  good  German  fairy  in  the  cup- 
board or  the  cake-box,  or  in  the  steaming  vapor  of  wash-day. 

The  boys  were  discussing  an  engagement  that  had  just  been 
announced,  and  Mrs.  Erlich  began  to  tell  Claude  a  long  story 
about  how  this  brilliant  young  man  had  come  to  Lincoln  and 
met  this  beautiful  young  girl,  who  was  already  engaged  to 
a  cold  and  academic  youth,  and  how  after  many  heart-burnings 
the  beautiful  girl  had  broken  with  the  wrong  man  and  become 
betrothed  to  the  right  one,  and  now  they  were  so  happy,*— 
and  every  one,  she  asked  Claude  to  believe,  was  equally  happy ! 
In  the  middle  of  her  narrative  Julius  reminded  her  smilingly 
that  since  Claude  didn't  know  these  people,  he  would  hardly 
be  interested  in  their  romance,  but  she  merely  looked  at  him 
over  her  nose-glasses  and  said,  "And  is  that  so,  Herr  Julius !" 
One  could  see  that  she  was  a  match  for  them. 

The  conversation  went  racing  from  one  thing  to  another. 
The  brothers  began  to  argue  hotly  about  a  new  girl  who  was 
visiting  in  town ;  whether  she  was  pretty,  how  pretty  she  was, 
whether  she  was  naive.  To  Claude  this  was  like  talk  in  a 
play.  He  had  never  heard  a  living  person  discussed  and  ana- 
lysed thus  before.  He  had  never  heard  a  family  talk  so  much, 
or  with  anything  like  so  much  zest.  Here  there  was  none  of 
the  poisonous  reticence  he  had  always  associated  with  family 
gatherings,  nor  the  awkwardness  of  people  sitting  with  their 
hands  in  their  lap,  facing  each  other,  each  one  guarding  his 
secret  or  his  suspicion,  while  he  hunted  for  a  safe  subject  to 
talk  about.  Their  fertility  of  phrase,  too,  astonished  him; 
how  could  people  find  so  much  to  say  about  one  girl?  To  be 
sure,  a  good  deal  of  it  sounded  far-fetched  to  him,  but  he 
sadly  admitted  that  in  such  matters  he  was  no  judge. 


42  One  of  Ours 


When  they  went  back  to  the  living  room  Julius  began  to 
pick  out  airs  on  his  guitar,  and  the  bearded  brother  sat  down 
to  read.  Otto,  the  youngest,  seeing  a  group  of  students  pass- 
ing the  house,  ran  out  on  to  the  lawn  and  called  them  in, —  two 
boys,  and  a  girl  with  red  cheeks  and  a  fur  stole.  Claude 
had  made  for  a  corner,  and  was  perfectly  content  to  be  an 
on-looker,  but  Mrs.  Erlich  soon  came  and  seated  herself  beside 
him.  When  the  doors  into  the  parlour  were  opened,  she  noticed 
his  eyes  straying  to  an  engraving  of  Napoleon  which  hung 
over  the  piano,  and  made  him  go  and  look  at  it.  She  told  him 
it  was  a  rare  engraving,  and  she  showed  him  a  portrait  of  her 
great-grandfather,  who  was  an  officer  in  Napoleon's  army. 
,To  explain  how  this  came  about  was  a  long  story. 

As  she  talked  to  Claude,  Mrs.  Erlich  discovered  that  his 
eyes  were  not  really  pale,  but  only  looked  so  because  of  his 
light  lashes.  They  could  say  a  great  deal  when  they  looked 
squarely  into  hers,  and  she  liked  what  they  said.  She  soon 
found  out  that  he  was  discontented ;  how  he  hated  the  Temple 
school,  and  why  his  mother  wished  him  to  go  there. 

When  the  three  who  had  been  called  in  from  the  sidewalk 
took  their  leave,  Claude  rose  also.  They  were  evidently 
familiars  of  the  house,  and  their  careless  exit,  with  a  gay 
"Good-night,  everybody!"  gave  him  no  practical  suggestion  as 
to  what  he  ought  to  say  or  how  he  was  to  get  out.  Julius 
made  things  more  difficult  by  telling  him  to  sit  down,  as  it 
wasn't  time  to  go  yet.  But  Mrs.  Erlich  said  it  was  time  ; 
he  would  have  a  long  ride  out  to  Temple  Place. 

It  was  really  very  easy.  She  walked  to  the  door  with  him 
and  gave  him  his  hat,  patting  his  arm  in  a  final  way.  "You 
will  come  often  to  see  us.  We  are  going  to  be  friends."  Her 
forehead,  with  its  neat  curtains  of  brown  hair,  came  something 


On  Lovely   Creek  43 

below  Claude's  chin,  and  she  peered  up  at  him  with  that 
quaintly  hopeful  expression,  as  if  —  as  if  even  he  might  turn 
out  wonderfully  well!  Certainly,  nobody  had  ever  looked  at 
him  like  that  before. 

"It's  been  lovely,"  he  murmured  to  her,  quite  without  em- 
barrassment, and  in  happy  unconsciousness  he  turned  the  knob 
and  passed  out  through  the  glass  door. 

While  the  freight  train  was  puffing  slowly  across  the  winter 
country,  leaving  a  black  trail  suspended  in  the  still  air,  Claude 
went  over  that  experience  minutely  in  his  mind,  as  if  he  feared 
to  lose  something  of  it  on  approaching  home.  He  could  re- 
member exactly  how  Mrs.  Erlich  and  the  boys  had  looked 
to  him  on  that  first  night,  could  repeat  almost  word  for  word 
the  conversation  which  had  been  so  novel  to  him.  Then  he 
had  supposed  the  Erlichs  were  rich  people,  but  he  found  out 
afterwards  that  they  were  poor.  The  father  was  dead,  and 
all  the  boys  had  to  work,  even  those  who  were  still  in  school. 
They  merely  knew  how  to  live,  he  discovered,  and  spent  their 
money  on  themselves,  instead  of  on  machines  to  do  the  work 
and  machines  to  entertain  people.  Machines,  Claude  decided, 
could  not  make  pleasure,  whatever  else  they  could  do.  They 
could  not  make  agreeable  people,  either.  In  so  far  as  he  could 
see,  the  latter  were  made  by  judicious  indulgence  in  almost 
everything  he  had  been  taught  to  shun. 

Since  that  first  visit,  he  had  gone  to  the  Erlichs',  not  as 
often  as  he  wished,  certainly,  but  as  often  as  he  dared.  Some 
of  the  University  boys  seemed  to  drop  in  there  whenever 
they  felt  like  it,  were  almost  members  of  the  family ;  but  they 
were  better  looking  than  he,  and  better  company.  To  be  sure, 
long  Baumgartner  was  an  intimate  of  the  house,  and  he  was 


44  One  of  Ours 


a  gawky  boy  with  big  red  hands  and  patched  shoes;  but  he 
could  at  least  speak  German  to  the  mother,  and  he  played  the 
piano,  and  seemed  to  know  a  great  deal  about  music. 

Claude  didn't  wish  to  be  a  bore.  Sometimes  in  the  evening, 
when  he  left  the  Library  to  smoke  a  cigar,  he  walked  slowly 
past  the  Erlichs'  house,  looking  at  the  lighted  windows  of  the 
sitting-room  and  wondering  what  was  going  on  inside.  Before 
he  went  there  to  call,  he  racked  his  brain  for  things  to  talk 
about.  If  there  had  been  a  football  game,  or  a  good  play  at 
the  theatre,  that  helped,  of  course. 

Almost  without  realizing  what  he  was  doing,  he  tried  to 
think  things  out  and  to  justify  his  opinions  to  himself,  so  that 
he  would  have  something  to  say  when  the  Erlich  boys  ques- 
tioned him.  He  had  grown  up  with  the  conviction  that  it  was 
beneath  his  dignity  to  explain  himself,  just  as  it  was  to  dress 
carefully,  or  to  be  caught  taking  pains  about  anything.  Ernest 
was  the  only  person  he  knew  who  tried  to  state  clearly  just  why 
he  believed  this  or  that;  and  people  at  home  thought  him 
very  conceited  and  foreign.  It  wasn't  American  to  explain 
yourself ;  you  didn't  have  to !  On  the  farm  you  said  you 
would  or  you  wouldn't ;  that  Roosevelt  was  all  right,  or  that  he 
was  crazy.  You  weren't  supposed  to  say  more  unless  you 
were  a  stump  speaker, —  if  you  tried  to  say  more,  it  was  be- 
cause you  liked  to  hear  yourself  talk.  Since  you  never  said 
anything,  you  didn't  form  the  habit  of  thinking.  If  you  got 
too  much  bored,  you  went  to  town  and  bought  something  new. 

But  all  the  people  he  met  at  the  Erlichs'  talked.  If 
they  asked  him  about  a  play  or  a  book  and  he  said  it  was  "no 
good,"  they  at  once  demanded  why.  The  Erlichs  thought  him 
a  clam,  but  Claude  sometimes  thought  himself  amazing.  Could 
it  really  be  he,  who  was  airing  his  opinions  in  this  indelicate 


On  Lovely  Creek  45 

manner?  He  caught  himself  using  words  that  had  never 
crossed  his  lips  before,  that  in  his  mind  were  associated  only 
with  the  printed  page.  When  he  suddenly  realized  that  he 
was  using  a  word  for  the  first  time,  and  probably  mispro- 
nouncing it,  he  would  become  as  much  confused  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  pass  a  lead  dollar,  would  blush  and  stammer  and  let 
some  one  finish  his  sentence  for  him. 

Claude  couldn't  resist  occasionally  dropping  in  at  the  Erlichs' 
in  the  afternoon;  then  the  boys  were  away,  and  he  could  have 
Mrs.  Erlich  to  himself  for  half-an-hour.  When  she  talked 
to  him  she  taught  him  so  much  about  life.  He  loved  to  hear 
her  sing-  sentimental  German  songs  as  she  worked;  "Spinn, 
spinn,  du  Tochter  mem"  He  didn't  know  why,  but  he  simply 
adored  it !  Every  time  he  went  away  from  her  he  felt  happy 
and  full  of  kindness,  and  thought  about  beechwoods  and  walled 
towns,  or  about  Carl  Schurz  and  the  Romantic  revolution. 

He  had  been  to  see  Mrs.  Erlich  just  before  starting  home  for 
the  holidays,  and  found  her  making  German  Christmas  cakes. 
She  took  him  into  the  kitchen  and  explained  the  almost 
holy  traditions  that  governed  this  complicated  cookery.  Her 
excitement  and  seriousness  as  she  beat  and  stirred  were  very 
pretty,  Claude  thought.  She  told  oflf  on  her  fingers  the  many 
ingredients,  but  he  believed  there  were  things  she  did  not 
name:  the  fragrance  of  old  friendships,  the  glow  of  early 
memories,  belief  in  wonder-working  rhymes  and  songs. 
Surely  these  were  fine  things  to  put  into  little  cakes !  After 
Claude  left  her,  he  did  something  a  Wheeler  didn't  do;  he 
went  down  to  O  street  and  sent  her  a  box  of  the  reddest  roses 
he  could  find.  In  his  pocket  was  the  little  note  she  had  written 
to  thank  him. 


VII 

IT  was  beginning  to  grow  dark  when  Claude  reached  the 
farm.  While  Ralph  stopped  to  put  away  the  car,  he 
walked  on  alone  to  the  house.  He  never  came  back 
without  emotion, —  try  as  he  would  to  pass  lightly  over  these 
departures  and  returns  which  were  all  in  the  day's  work. 
When  he  came  up  the  hill  like  this,  toward  the  tall  house  with 
its  lighted  windows,  something  always  clutched  at  his  heart. 
He  both  loved  and  hated  to  come  home.  He  was  always 
disappointed,  and  yet  he  always  felt  the  Tightness  of  return- 
ing to  his  own  place.  Even  when  it  broke  his  spirit  and  hum- 
bled his  pride,  he  felt  it  was  right  that  he  should  be  thus 
humbled.  He  didn't  question  that  the  lowest  state  of  mind 
was  the  truest,  and  that  the  less  a  man  thought  of  himself, 
the  more  likely  he  was  to  be  correct  in  his  estimate. 

Approaching  the  door,  Claude  stopped  a  moment  and  peered 
in  at  the  kitchen  window.  The  table  was  set  for  supper,  and 
Mahailey  was  at  the  stove,  stirring  something  in  a  big  iron  pot ; 
corrimeal  mush,  probably, —  she  often  made  it  for  herself  now 
that  her  teeth  had  begun  to  fail.  She  stood  leaning  over, 
embracing  the  pot  with  one  arm,  and  with  the  other  she  beat 
the  stiff  contents,  nodding  her  head  in  time  to  this  rotary 
movement.  Confused  emotions  surged  up  in  Claude.  He 
went  in  quickly  and  gave  her  a  bearish  hug. 

Her  face  wrinkled  up  in  the  foolish  grin  he  knew  so  well. 
"Lord,  how  you  scared  me,  Mr.  Claude!  A  little  more'n 
I'd  'a'  had  my  mush  all  over  the  floor.  You  lookin*  fine,  you 
nice  boy,  you !" 

46 


On  Lovely   Creek  47 

He  knew  Mahailey  was  gladder  to  see  him  come  home  than 
any  one  except  his  mother.  Hearing  Mrs.  Wheeler's  wander- 
ing, uncertain  steps  in  the  enclosed  stairway,  he  opened  the  door 
and  ran  halfway  up  to  meet  her,  putting  his  arm  about  her 
with  the  almost  painful  tenderness  he  always  felt,  but  seldom 
was  at  liberty  to  show.  She  reached  up  both  hands  and 
stroked  his  hair  for  a  moment,  laughing  as  one  does  to  a  little 
boy,  and  telling  him  she  believed  it  was  redder  every  time  he 
came  back. 

"Have  we  got  all  the  corn  in,  Mother  ?" 

"No,  Claude,  we  haven't.  You  know  we're  always  behind- 
hand. It's  been  fine,  open  weather  for  husking,  too.  But 
at  least  we've  got  rid  of  that  miserable  Jerry ;  so  there's  some- 
thing to  be  thankful  for.  He  had  one  of  his  fits  of  temper  in 
town  one  day,  when  he  was  hitching  up  to  come  home,  and 
Leonard  Dawson  saw  him  beat  one  of  our  horses  with  the 
neck-yoke.  Leonard  told  your  father,  and  spoke  his  mind, 
and  your  father  discharged  Jerry.  If  you  or  Ralph  had 
told  him,  he  most  likely  wouldn't  have  done  anything  about  it. 
But  I  guess  all  fathers  are  the  same."  She  chuckled  con- 
fidingly, leaning  on  Claude's  arm  as  they  descended  the  stairs. 

"I  guess  so.  Did  he  hurt  the  horse  much?  Which  one 
was  it?" 

"The  little  black,  Pompey.  I  believe  he  is  rather  a  mean 
horse.  The  men  said  one  of  the  bones  over  the  eye  was 
broken,  but  he  would  probably  come  round  all  right." 

"Pompey  isn't  mean ;  he's  nervous.  All  the  horses  hated 
Jerry,  and  they  had  good  reason  to."  Claude  jerked  his  shoul- 
ders to  shake  off  disgusting  recollections  of  this  mongrel  man 
which  flashed  back  into  his  mind.  He  had  seen  things  happen 
in  the  barn  that  he  positively  couldn't  tell  his  father. 


48  One  of  Ours 


Mr.  Wheeler  came  into  the  kitchen  and  stopped  on  his  way 
upstairs  long  enough  to  say,  "Hello,  Claude.  You  look  pretty 
well." 

"Yes,  sir.     I'm  all  right,  thank  you." 

"Bayliss  tells  me  you've  been  playing  football  a  good  deal." 

"Not  more  than  usual.  We  played  half  a  dozen  games; 
generally  got  licked.  The  State  has  a  fine  team,  though." 

"I  ex-pect,"  Mr.  Wheeler  drawled  as  he  strode  upstairs. 

Supper  went  as  usual.  Dan  kept  grinning  and  blinking  at 
Qaude,  trying  to  discover  whether  he  had  already  been  in- 
formed of  Jerry's  fate.  Ralph  told  him  the  neighbourhood 
gossip:  Gus  Yoeder,  their  German  neighbour,  was  bringing 
suit  against  a  farmer  who  had  shot  his  dog.  Leonard  Daw- 
son  was  going  to  marry  Susie  Grey.  She  was  the  girl  on 
whose  account  Leonard  had  slapped  Bayliss,  Claude  remem- 
bered. 

After  supper  Ralph  and  Mr.  Wheeler  went  off  in  the  car  to 
a  Christmas  entertainment  at  the  country  schoolhouse.  Claude 
and  his  mother  sat  down  for  a  quiet  talk  by  the  hard-coal 
burner  in  the  living  room  upstairs.  Claude  liked  this  room, 
especially  when  his  father  was  not  there.  The  old  carpet, 
the  faded  chairs,  the  secretary  book-case,  the  spotty  engraving 
with  all  the  scenes  from  Pilgrim's  Progress  that  hung  over 
the  sofa, —  these  things  made  him  feel  at  home.  Ralph  was 
always  proposing  to  re-furnish  the  room  in  Mission  oak,  but  so 
far  Claude  and  his  mother  had  saved  it. 

Claude  drew  up  his  favourite  chair  and  began  to  tell  Mrs. 
Wheeler  about  the  Erlich  boys  and  their  mother.  She  lis- 
tened, but  he  could  see  that  she  was  much  more  interested  in 
hearing  about  the  Chapins,  and  whether  Edward's  throat  had 
improved,  and  where  he  had  preached  this  fall.  That  was 


On  Lovely  Creek  49 

one  of  the  disappointing  things  about  coming  home ;  he  could 
never  interest  his  mother  in  new  things  or  people  unless  they 
in  some  way  had  to  do  with  the  church.  He  knew,  too,  she 
was  always  hoping  to  hear  that  he  at  last  felt  the  need  of 
coming  closer  to  the  church.  She  did  not  harass  him  about 
these  things,  but  she  had  told  him  once  or  twice  that  nothing 
could  happen  in  the  world  which  would  give  her  so  much 
pleasure  as  to  see  him  reconciled  to  Christ.  He  realized, 
as  he  talked  to  her  about  the  Erlichs,  that  she  was  wondering 
whether  they  weren't  very  "worldly"  people,  and  was  appre- 
hensive about  their  influence  on  him.  The  evening  was  rather 
a  failure,  and  he  went  to  bed  early. 

Claude  had  gone  through  a  painful  time  of  doubt  and  fear 
when  he  thought  a  great  deal  about  religion.  For  several 
years,  from  fourteen  to  eighteen,  he  believed  that  he  would  be 
lost  if  he  did  not  repent  and  undergo  that  mysterious  change 
called  conversion.  But  there  was  something  stubborn  in  him 
that  would  not  let  him  avail  himself  of  the  pardon  offered. 
He  felt  condemned,  but  he  did  not  want  to  renounce  a  world 
he  as  yet  knew  nothing  of.  He  would  like  to  go  into  life 
with  all  his  vigour,  with  all  his  faculties  free.  He  didn't  want 
to  be  like  the  young  men  who  said  in  prayer-meeting  that  they 
leaned  on  their  Saviour.  He  hated  their  way  of  meekly  ac- 
cepting permitted  pleasures. 

In  those  days  Claude  had  a  sharp  physical  fear  of  death. 
A  funeral,  the  sight  of  a  neighbour  lying  rigid  in  his  black 
coffin,  overwhelmed  him  with  terror.  He  used  to  lie  awake 
in  the  dark,  plotting  against  death,  trying  to  devise  some  plan 
of  escaping  it,  angrily  wishing  he  had  never  been  born.  Was 
there  no  way  out  of  the  world  but  this  ?  When  he  thought  of 
the  millions  of  lonely  creatures  rotting  away  under  ground, 


One  of  Ours 


life  seemed  nothing  but  a  trap  that  caught  people  for  one  hor- 
rible end.  There  had  never  been  a  man  so  strong  or  so  good 
that  he  had  escaped.  And  yet  he  sometimes  felt  sure  that  he, 
Claude  Wheeler,  would  escape;  that  he  would  actually  invent 
some  clever  shift  to  save  himself  from  dissolution.  When  he 
found  it,  he  would  tell  nobody ;  he  would  be  crafty  and  secret. 
Putrefaction,  decay.  .  .  .  He  could  not  give  his  pleasant,  warm 
body  over  to  that  filthiness!  What  did  it  mean,  that  verse 
in  the  Bible,  "He  shall  not  suffer  His  holy  one  to  see  cor- 
ruption" ? 

If  anything  could  cure  an  intelligent  boy  of  morbid  re- 
ligious fears,  it  was  a  denominational  school  like  that  to 
which  Claude  had  been  sent.  Now  he  dismissed  all  Chris- 
tian theology  as  something  too  full  of  evasions  and  sophistries 
to  be  reasoned  about.  The  men  who  made  it,  he  felt  sure, 
were  like  the  men  who  taught  it.  The  noblest  could  be  damned, 
according  to  their  theory,  while  almost  any  mean-spirited 
parasite  could  be  saved  by  faith.  "Faith,"  as  he  saw  it  ex- 
emplified in  the  faculty  of  the  Temple  school,  was  a  substi- 
tute for  most  of  the  manly  qualities  he  admired.  Young  men 
went  into  the  ministry  because  they  were  timid  or  lazy  and 
wanted  society  to  take  care  of  them ;  because  they  wanted  to  be 
pampered  by  kind,  trusting  women  like  his  mother. 

Though  he  wanted  little  to  do  with  theology  and  theologians, 
Claude  would  have  said  that  he  was  a  Christian.  He  believed 
in  God,  and  in  the  spirit  of  the  four  Gospels,  and  in  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount.  He  used  to  halt  and  stumble  at,  "Blessed 
are  the  meek,"  until  one  day  he  happened  to  think  that  this 
verse  was  meant  exactly  for  people  like  Mahailey;  and  surely 
she  was  blessed! 


VIII 

ON  the  Sunday  after  Christmas  Claude  and  Ernest 
were  walking  along  the  banks  of  Lovely  Creek. 
They  had  been  as  far  as  Mr.  Wheeler's  timber  claim 
and  back.  It  was  like  an  autumn  afternoon,  so  warm  that  they 
left  their  overcoats  on  the  limb  of  a  crooked  elm  by  the 
pasture  fence.  The  fields  and  the  bare  tree-tops  seemed  to  be 
swimming  in  light.  A  few  brown  leaves  still  clung  to  the 
bushy  trees  along  the  creek.  In  the  upper  pasture,  more  than 
a  mile  from  the  house,  the  boys  found  a  bittersweet  vine  that 
wound  about  a  little  dogwood  and  covered  it  with  scarlet  ber- 
ries. It  was  like  rinding  a  Christmas  tree  growing  wild  out  of 
doors.  They  had  just  been  talking  about  some  of  the  books 
Claude  had  brought  home,  and  his  history  course.  He  was 
not  able  to  tell  Ernest  as  much  about  the  lectures  as  he  had 
meant  to,  and  he  felt  that  this  was  more  Ernest's  fault  than 
his  own ;  Ernest  was  such  a  literal-minded  fellow.  When  they 
came  upon  the  bittersweet,  they  forgot  their  discussion  and 
scrambled  down  the  bank  to  admire  the  red  clusters  on  the 
woody,  smoke-coloured  vine,  and  its  pale  gold  leaves,  ready 
to  fall  at  a  touch.  The  vine  and  the  little  tree  it  honoured, 
hidden  away  in  the  cleft  of  a  ravine,  had  escaped  the  stripping 
winds,  and  the  eyes  of  schoolchildren  who  sometimes  took  a 
short  cut  home  through  the  pasture.  At  its  roots,  the  creek 
trickled  thinly  along,  black  between  two  jagged  crusts  of  melt- 
ing ice. 

When  they  left  the  spot  and  climbed  back  to  the  level,  Claude 

51 


52  One  of  Ours 


again  felt  an  itching  to  prod  Ernest  out  of  his  mild  and  reason- 
able mood. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  after  a  while,  Ernest?  Do  you 
mean  to  farm  all  your  life  ?" 

"Naturally.  If  I  were  going  to  learn  a  trade,  I'd  be  at  it 
before  now.  What  makes  you  ask  that  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !  I  suppose  people  must  think  about 
the  future  sometime.  And  you're  so  practical." 

"The  future,  eh?"  Ernest  shut  one  eye  and  smiled. 
"That's  a  big  word.  After  I  get  a  place  of  my  own  and  have 
a  good  start,  I'm  going  home  to  see  my  old  folks  some  winter. 
Maybe  I'll  marry  a  nice  girl  and  bring  her  back." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"That's  enough,  if  it  turns  out  right,  isn't  it?" 

"Perhaps.  It  wouldn't  be  for  me.  I  don't  believe  I  can  ever 
settle  down  to  anything.  Don't  you  feel  that  at  this  rate  there 
isn't  much  in  it?" 

"In  what?" 

"In  living  at  all,  going  on  as  we  do.  What  do  we  get  out 
of  it?  Take  a  day  like  this:  you  waken  up  in  the  morning 
and  you're  glad  to  be  alive ;  it's  a  good  enough  day  for  any- 
thing, and  you  feel  sure  something  will  happen.  Well,  whether 
it's  a  workday  or  a  holiday,  it's  all  the  same  in  the  end.  At 
night  you  go  to  bed  —  nothing  has  happened." 

"But  what  do  you  expect?  What  can  happen  to  you,  except 
in  your  own  mind?  If  I  get  through  my  work,  and  get  an 
afternoon  off  to  see  my  friends  like  this,  it's  enough  for  me." 

"Is  it?  Well,  if  we've  only  got  once  to  live,  it  seems  like 
there  ought  to  be  something  —  well,  something  splendid  about 
life,  sometimes." 

Ernest  was  sympathetic  now.     He  drew  nearer  to  Claude 


On  Lovely   Creek  53 

as  they  walked  along  and  looked  at  him  sidewise  with  concern. 
"You  Americans  are  always  looking  for  something  outside 
yourselves  to  warm  you  up,  and  it  is  no  way  to  do.  In  old 
countries,  where  not  very  much  can  happen  to  us,  we  know 
that, —  and  we  learn  to  make  the  most  of  little  things." 

"The  martyrs  must  have  found  something  outside  themselves. 
Otherwise  they  could  have  made  themselves  comfortable  with 
little  things." 

"Why,  I  should  say  they  were  the  ones  who  had  nothing 
but  their  idea!  It  would  be  ridiculous  to  get  burned  at  the 
stake  for  the  sensation.  Sometimes  I  think  the  martyrs  had 
a  good  deal  of  vanity  to  help  them  along,  too." 

Claude  thought  Ernest  had  never  been  so  tiresome.  He 
squinted  at  a  bright  object  across  the  fields  and  said  cuttingly, 
"The  fact  is,  Ernest,  you  think  a  man  ought  to  be  satisfied  with 
his  board  and  clothes  and  Sundays  off,  don't  you  ?" 

Ernest  laughed  rather  mournfully.  "It  doesn't  matter  much 
what  I  think  about  it;  things  are  as  they  are.  Nothing  is 
going  to  reach  down  from  the  sky  and  pick  a  man  up,  I  guess." 

Claude  muttered  something  to  himself,  twisting  his  chin 
about  over  his  collar  as  if  he  had  a  bridle-bit  in  his  mouth. 

The  sun  had  dropped  low,  and  the  two  boys,  as  Mrs. 
Wheeler  watched  them  from  the  kitchen  window,  seemed  to 
be  walking  beside  a  prairie  fire.  She  smiled  as  she  saw  their 
black  figures  moving  along  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  against  the 
golden  sky;  even  at  that  distance  the  one  looked  so  adaptable, 
and  the  other  so  unyielding.  They  were  arguing,  probably, 
and  probably  Claude  was  on  the  wrong  side. 


IX 

AFTER  the  vacation  Claude  again  settled  down  to  his 
reading  in  the  University  Library.  He  worked  at  a 
table  next  the  alcove  where  the  books  on  painting  and 
sculpture  were  kept.  The  art  students,  all  of  whom  were 
girls,  read  and  whispered  together  in  this  enclosure,  and  he 
could  enjoy  their  company  without  having  to  talk  to  them. 
They  were  lively  and  friendly;  they  often  asked  him  to  lift 
heavy  books  and  portfolios  from  the  shelves,  and  greeted  him 
gaily  when  he  met  them  in  the  street  or  on  the  campus,  and 
talked  to  him  with  the  easy  cordiality  usual  between  boys  and 
girls  in  a  co-educational  school.  One  of  these  girls,  Miss 
Peachy  Millmore,  was  different  from  the  others, —  different 
from  any  girl  Claude  had  ever  known.  She  came  from  Georgia, 
and  was  spending  the  winter  with  her  aunt  on  B  street. 

Although  she  was  short  and  plump,  Miss  Millmore  moved 
with  what  might  be  called  a  "carriage,"  and  she  had  altogether 
more  manner  and  more  reserve  than  the  Western  girls.  Her 
hair  was  yellow  and  curly, —  the  short  ringlets  about  her  ears 
were  just  the  colour  of  a  new  chicken.  Her  vivid  blue  eyes 
were  a  trifle  too  prominent,  and  a  generous  blush  of  colour 
mantled  her  cheeks.  It  seemed  to  pulsate  there, —  one  had  a 
desire  to  touch  her  cheeks  to  see  if  they  were  hot.  The  Erlich 
brothers  and  their  friends  called  her  "the  Georgia  peach." 
She  was  considered  very  pretty,  and  the  University  boys  had 
rushed  her  when  she  first  came  to  town.  Since  then  her  vogue 
had  somewhat  declined. 

Miss  Millmore  often  lingered  about  the  campus  to  walk  down 

54 


On  Lovely  Creek  55 

town  with  Claude.  However  he  tried  to  adapt  his  long  stride 
to  her  tripping  gait,  she  was  sure  to  get  out  of  breath.  She 
was  always  dropping  her  gloves  or  her  sketchbook  or  her  purse, 
and  he  liked  to  pick  them  up  for  her,  and  to  pull  on  her 
rubbers,  which  kept  slipping  off  at  the  heel.  She  was  very 
kind  to  single  him  out  and  be  so  gracious  to  him,  he  thought. 
She  even  coaxed  him  to  pose  in  his  track  clothes  for  the  life 
class  on  Saturday  morning,  telling  him  that  he  had  "a  magni- 
ficent physique,"  a  compliment  which  covered  him  with  con- 
fusion. But  he  posed,  of  course. 

Claude  looked  forward  to  seeing  Peachy  Millmore,  missed 
her  if  she  were  not  in  the  alcove,  found  it  quite  natural  that 
she  should  explain  her  absences  to  him, — tell  him  how  often 
she  washed  her  hair  and  how  long  it  was  when  she  uncoiled  it. 

One  Friday  in  February  Julius  Erlich  overtook  Claude  on 
the  campus  and  proposed  that  they  should  try  the  skating 
tomorrow. 

"Yes,  I'm  going  out,"  Claude  replied.  "I've  promised  to 
teach  Miss  Millmore  to  skate.  Won't  you  come  along  and 
help  me?" 

Julius  laughed  indulgently.  "Oh,  no!  Some  other  time. 
I  don't  want  to  break  in  on  that." 

"Nonsense !     You  could  teach  her  better  than  I." 

"Oh,  I  haven't  the  courage !" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean." 

"No,  I  don't.  Why  do  you  always  laugh  about  that  girl, 
anyhow  ?" 

Julius  made  a  little  grimace.  "She  wrote  some  awfully 
slushy  letters  to  Phil  Bowen,  and  he  read  them  aloud  at  the 
frat  house  one  night." 


56  One  of  Ours 


•'Didn't  you  slap  him?"  Claude  demanded,  turning  red. 

"Well,  I  would  have  thought  I  would,"  said  Julius  smiling, 
"but  I  didn't.  They  were  too  silly  to  make  a  fuss  about. 
I've  been  wary  of  the  Georgia  peach  ever  since.  If  you 
touched  that  sort  of  peach  ever  so  lightly,  it  might  remain  in 
your  hand." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Claude  haughtily.  "She's  only 
kind-hearted." 

"Perhaps  you're  right.  But  I'm  terribly  afraid  of  girls 
who  are  too  kind-hearted,"  Julius  confessed.  He  had  wanted 
to  drop  Claude  a  word  of  warning  for  some  time. 

Claude  kept  his  engagement  with  Miss  Millmore.  He  took 
her  out  to  the  skating  pond  several  times,  indeed,  though  in 
the  beginning  he  told  her  he  feared  her  ankles  were  too  weak. 
Their  last  excursion  was  made  by  moonlight,  and  after  that 
evening  Claude  avoided  Miss  Millmore  when  he  could  do  so 
without  being  rude.  She  was  attractive  to  him  no  more.  It 
was  her  way  to  subdue  by  clinging  contact.  One  could 
scarcely  call  it  design;  it  was  a  degree  less  subtle  than  that. 
She  had  already  thus  subdued  a  pale  cousin  in  Atlanta,  and 
it  was  on  this  account  that  she  had  been  sent  North.  She 
had,  Claude  angrily  admitted,  no  reserve, —  though  when  one 
first  met  her  she  seemed  to  have  so  much.  Her  eager  sus- 
ceptibility presented  not  the  slightest  temptation  to  him.  He 
was  a  boy  with  strong  impulses,  and  he  detested  the  idea  of 
trifling  with  them.  The  talk  of  the  disreputable  men  his 
father  kept  about  the  place  at  home,  instead  of  corrupting  him, 
had  given  him  a  sharp  disgust  for  sensuality.  He  had  an 
almost  Hippolytean  pride  in  candour. 


X 

THE  Elrich  family  loved  anniversaries,  birthdays, 
occasions.  That  spring  Mrs.  Erlich's  first  cousin, 
Wilhelmina  Schroeder-Schatz,  who  sang  with  the 
Chicago  Opera  Company,  came  to  Lincoln  as  soloist  for  the 
May  Festival.  As  the  date  of  her  engagement  approached,  her 
relatives  began  planning  to  entertain  her.  The  Matinee  Musi- 
cal was  to  give  a  formal  reception  for  the  singer,  so  the  Erlichs 
decided  upon  a  dinner.  Each  member  of  the  family  invited 
one  guest,  and  they  had  great  difficulty  in  deciding  which  of 
their  friends  would  be  most  appreciative  of  the  honour.  There 
were  to  be  more  men  than  women,  because  Mrs.  Erlich  re- 
membered that  cousin  Wilhelmina  had  never  been  partial  to 
the  society  of  her  own  sex. 

One  evening  when  her  sons  were  revising  their  list,  Mrs. 
Erlich  reminded  them  that  she  had  not  as  yet  named  her  guest. 
"For  me,"  she  said  with  decision,  "you  may  put  down  Claude 
Wheeler." 

This  announcement  was  met  with  groans  and  laughter. 

"You  don't  mean  it,  Mother,"  the  oldest  son  protested. 
"Poor  old  Claude  wouldn't  know  what  it  was  all  about, — and 
one  stick  can  spoil  a  dinner  party." 

Mrs.  Erlich  shook  her  finger  at  him  with  conviction.  "You 
will  see;  your  cousin  Wilhelmina  will  be  more  interested  in 
that  boy  than  in  any  of  the  others !" 

Julius  thought  if  she  were  not  too  strongly  opposed  she 
might  still  yield  her  point.  "For  one  thing,  Mother,  Claude 
hasn't  any  dinner  clothes,"  he  murmured. 

57 


58  One  of  Ours 


She  nodded  to  him.  "That  has  been  attended  to,  Herr 
Julius.  He  is  having  some  made.  When  I  sounded  him, 
he  told  me  he  could  easily  afford  it." 

The  boys  said  if  things  had  gone  as  far  as  that,  they  sup- 
posed they  would  have  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  the  eldest 
wrote  down  "Claude  Wheeler"  with  a  flourish. 

If  the  Erlich  boys  were  apprehensive,  their  anxiety  was 
nothing  to  Claude's.  He  was  to  take  Mrs.  Erlich  to  Madame 
Schroeder-Schatz's  recital,  and  on  the  evening  of  the  concert, 
when  he  appeared  at  the  door,  the  boys  dragged  him  in  to  look 
him  over.  Otto  turned  on  all  the  lights,  and  Mrs.  Erlich, 
in  her  new  black  lace  over  white  satin,  fluttered  into  the  par- 
lour to  see  what  figure  her  escort  cut. 

Claude  pulled  off  his  overcoat  as  he  was  bid,  and  presented 
himself  in  the  sooty  blackness  of  fresh  broadcloth.  Mrs. 
Erlich's  eyes  swept  his  long  black  legs,  his  smooth  shoulders, 
and  lastly  his  square  red  head,  affectionately  inclined  toward 
her.  She  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands. 

"Now  all  the  girls  will  turn  round  in  their  seats  to  look, 
and  wonder  where  I  got  him !" 

Claude  began  to  bestow  her  belongings  in  his  overcoat 
pockets ;  opera  glasses  in  one,  fan  in  another.  She  put  a 
lorgnette  into  her  little  bag,  along  with  her  powder-box,  hand- 
kerchief and  smelling  salts, —  there  was  even  a  little  silver 
box  of  peppermint  drops,  in  case  she  might  begin  to  cough. 
She  drew  on  her  long  gloves,  arranged  a  lace  scarf  over  her 
hair,  and  at  last  was  ready  to  have  the  evening  cloak  which 
Claude  held  wound  about  her.  When  she  reached  up  and 
took  his  arm,  bowing  to  her  sons,  they  laughed  and  liked  Claude 
better.  His  steady,  protecting  air  was  a  frame  for  the  gay 
little  picture  she  made. 


On  Lovely   Creek  59 

The  dinner  party  came  off  the  next  evening.  The  guest  of 
honour,  Madame  Wilhelmina  Schroeder-Schatz,,  was  some 
years  younger  than  her  cousin,  Augusta  Erlich.  She  was 
short,  stalwart,  with  an  enormous  chest,  a  fine  head,  and  a 
commanding  presence.  Her  great  contralto  voice,  which  she 
used  without  much  discretion,  was  a  really  superb  organ  and 
gave  people  a  pleasure  as  substantial  as  food  and  drink.  At 
dinner  she  sat  on  the  right  of  the  oldest  son.  Claude, 
beside  Mrs.  Erlich  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  watched 
attentively  the  lady  attired  in  green  velvet  and  blazing  rhine- 
stones. 

After  dinner,  as  Madame  Schroeder-Schatz  swept  out  of  the 
dining  room,  she  dropped  her  cousin's  arm  and  stopped  be- 
fore Claude,  who  stood  at  attention  behind  his  chair. 

"If  cousin  Augusta  can  spare  you,  we  must  have  a  little 
talk  together.  We  have  been  very  far  separated,"  she  said. 

She  led  Claude  to  one  of  the  window  seats  in  the  living- 
room,  at  once  complained  of  a  draft,  and  sent  him  to  hunt  for 
her  green  scarf.  He  brought  it  and  carefully  put  it  about  her 
shoulders;  but  after  a  few  moments,  she  threw  it  off  with  a 
slightly  annoyed  air,  as  if  she  had  never  wanted  it.  Claude 
with  solicitude  reminded  her  about  the  draft. 

"Draft?"  she  said  lifting  her  chin,  "there  is  no  draft  here." 

She  asked  Claude  where  he  lived,  how  much  land  his  father 
owned,  what  crops  they  raised,  and  about  their  poultry  and 
dairy.  When  she  was  a  child  she  had  lived  on  a  farm  in 
Bavaria,  and  she  seemed  to  know  a  good  deal  about  farming 
and  live-stock.  She  was  disapproving  when  Claude  told  her 
they  rented  half  their  land  to  other  farmers.  "If  I  were 
a  young  man,  I  would  begin  to  acquire  land,  and  I  would  not 
stop  until  I  had  a  whole  county,"  she  declared.  She  said  that 


60  One  of  Ours 


when  she  met  new  people,  she  liked  to  find  out  the  way  they 
made  their  living;  her  own  way  was  a  hard  one. 

Later  in  the  evening  Madame  Schroeder-Schatz  graciously 
consented  to  sing  for  her  cousins.  When  she  sat  down  to  the 
piano,  she  beckoned  Claude  and  asked  him  to  turn  for  her. 
He  shook  his  head,  smiling  ruefully. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  so  stupid,  but  I  don't  know  one  note  from 
another." 

She  tapped  his  sleeve.  "Well,  never  mind.  I  may  want 
the  piano  moved  yet ;  you  could  do  that  for  me,  eh  ?"' 

When    Madame    Schroeder-Schatz    was    in    Mrs.    Erlich's 
bedroom,  powdering  her  nose  before  she  put  on  her  wraps, 
she  remarked,  "What  a  pity,  Augusta,  that  you  have  not  a 
daughter  now,  to  marry  to  Claude  Melnotte.     He  would  make 
you  a  perfect  son-in-law." 

"Ah,  if  I  only  had !"  sighed  Mrs.  Erlich. 

"Or,"  continued  Madame  Schroeder-Schatz,  energetically 
pulling  on  her  large  carriage  shoes,  "if  you  were  but  a  few 
years  younger,  it  might  not  yet  be  too  late.  Oh,  don't  be 
a  fool,  Augusta!  Such  things  have  happened,  and  will  hap- 
pen again.  However,  better  a  widow  than  to  be  tied  to  a  sick 
man  —  like  a  stone  about  my  neck!  What  a  husband  to  go 
home  to !  and  I  a  woman  in  full  vigour.  Das  ist  ein  Kreuz 
ich  trage!"  She  smote  her  bosom,  on  the  left  side. 

Having  put  on  first  a  velvet  coat,  then  a  fur  mantle, 
Madame  Schroeder-Schatz  moved  like  a  galleon  out  into  the 
living  room  and  kissed  all  her  cousins,  and  Claude  Wheeler, 
good-night. 


XI 

ONE  warm  afternoon  in  May  Claude  sat  in  his  up- 
stairs room  at  the  Chapins',  copying  his  thesis,  which 
was  to  take  the  place  of  an  examination  in  history. 
It  was  a  criticism  of  the  testimony  of  Jeanne  d'Arc  in  her  nine 
private  examinations  and  the  trial  in  ordinary.  The  Professor 
had  assigned  him  the  subject  with  a  flash  of  humour.  Al- 
though this  evidence  had  been  pawed  over  by  so  many  hands 
since  the  fifteenth  century,  by  the  phlegmatic  and  the  fiery, 
by  rhapsodists  and  cynics,  he  felt  sure  that  Wheeler  would  not 
dismiss  the  case  lightly. 

Indeed,  Claude  put  a  great  deal  of  time  and  thought  upon 
the  matter,  and  for  the  time  being  it  seemed  quite  the  most 
important  thing  in  his  life.  He  worked  from  an  English 
translation  of  the  Proces,  but  he  kept  the  French  text  at  his 
elbow,  and  some  of  her  replies  haunted  him  in  the  language 
in  which  they  were  spoken.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  were 
like  the  speech  of  her  saints,  of  whom  Jeanne  said,  "the  voice 
is  beautiful,  sweet  and  low,  and  it  speaks  in  the  French  tongue." 
Claude  flattered  himself  that  he  had  kept  all  personal 
feeling  out  of  the  paper ;  that  it  was  a  cold  estimate  of  the  girl's 
motives  and  character  as  indicated  by  the  consistency  and  in- 
consistency of  her  replies;  and  of  the  change  wrought  in  her 
by  imprisonment  and  by  "the  fear  of  the  fire." 

When  he  had  copied  the  last  page  of  his  manuscript  and 
sat  contemplating  the  pile  of  written  sheets,  he  felt  that  after 
all  his  conscientious  study  he  really  knew  very  little  more 

61 


62  One  of  Ours 


about  the  Maid  of  Orleans  than  when  he  first  heard  of  her 
from  his  mother,  one  day  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  He  had 
been  shut  up  in  the  house  with  a  cold,  he  remembered,  and  he 
found  a  picture  of  her  in  armour,  in  an  old  book,  and  took  it 
down  to  the  kitchen  where  his  mother  was  making  apple  pies. 
She  glanced  at  the  picture,  and  while  she  went  on  rolling  out 
the  dough  and  fitting  it  to  the  pans,  she  told  him  the  story. 
He  had  forgotten  what  she  said, —  it  must  have  been  very 
fragmentary, —  but  from  that  time  on  he  knew  the  essential 
facts  about  Joan  of  Arc,  and  she  was  a  living  figure  in  his 
mind.  She  seemed  to  him  then  as  clear  as  now,  and  now 
as  miraculous  as  then. 

It  was  a  curious  thing,  he  reflected,  that  a  character  could 
perpetuate  itself  thus ;  by  a  picture,  a  word,  a  phrase,  it  could 
renew  itself  in  every  generation  and  be  born  over  and  over 
again  in  the  minds  of  children.  At  that  time  he  had  never 
seen  a  map  of  France,  and  had  a  very  poor  opinion  of  any  place 
farther  away  than  Chicago;  yet  he  was  perfectly  prepared  for 
the  legend  of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  often  thought  about  her  when 
he  was  bringing  in  his  cobs  in  the  evening,  or  when  he  was  sent 
to  the  windmill  for  water  and  stood  shaking  in  the  cold  while 
the  chilled  pump  brought  it  slowly  up.  He  pictured  her  then 
very  much  as  he  did  now;  about  her  figure  there  gathered 
a  luminous  cloud,  like  dust,  with  soldiers  in  it  ...  the  banner 
with  lilies  ...  a  great  church  .  .  .  cities  with  walls. 

On  this  balmy  spring  afternoon,  Claude  felt  softened  and 
reconciled  to  the  world.  Like  Gibbon,  he  was  sorry  to  have 
finished  his  labour, —  and  he  could  not  see  anything  else  as  in- 
teresting ahead.  He  must  soon  be  going  home  now.  There 
would  be  a  few  examinations  to  sit  through  at  the  Temple, 
a  few  more  evenings  with  the  Erlichs,  trips  to  the  Library  to 


On  Lovely  Creek  63 

carry  back  the  books  he  had  been  using, —  and  then  he  would 
suddenly  find  himself  with  nothing  to  do  but  take  the  train  for 
Frankfort 

He  rose  with  a  sigh  and  began  to  fasten  his  history  papers 
between  covers.  Glancing  out  of  the  window,  he  decided  that 
he  would  walk  into  town  and  carry  his  thesis,  which  was  due 
today ;  the  weather  was  too  fine  to  sit  bumping  in  a  street  car. 
The  truth  was,  he  wished  to  prolong  his  relations  with  his 
manuscript  as  far  as  possible. 

He  struck  off  by  the  road, —  it  could  scarcely  be  called  a 
street,  since  it  ran  across  raw  prairie  land  where  the  buffalo- 
peas  were  in  blossom.  Claude  walked  slower  than  was  his  cus- 
tom, his  straw  hat  pushed  back  on  his  head  and  the  blaze  of 
the  sun  full  in  his  face.  His  body  felt  light  in  the  scented 
wind,  and  he  listened  drowsily  to  the  larks,  singing  on  dried 
weeds  and  sunflower  stalks.  At  this  season  their  song  is  al- 
most painful  to  hear,  it  is  so  sweet.  He  sometimes  thought  of 
this  walk  long  afterward;  it  was  memorable  to  him,  though 
he  could  not  say  why. 

On  reaching  the  University,  he  went  directly  to  the  Depart- 
ment of  European  History,  where  he  was  to  leave  his  thesis 
on  a  long  table,  with  a  pile  of  others.  He  rather  dreaded 
this,  and  was  glad  when,  just  as  he  entered,  the  Professor  came 
out  from  his  private  office  and  took  the  bound  manuscript  into 
his  own  hands,  nodding  cordially. 

"Your  thesis?  Oh  yes,  Jeanne  d'Arc.  The  Proces.  I  had 
forgotten.  Interesting  material,  isn't  it?"  He  opened  the 
cover  and  ran  over  the  pages.  "I  suppose  you  acquitted  her 
on  the  evidence?" 

Claude  blushed.     "Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  now  you  might  read  what  Michelet  has  to  say  about 


64  One  of  Ours 


her.  There's  an  old  translation  in  the  Library.  Did  you  en- 
joy working  on  it?" 

"I  did,  very  much."  Claude  wished  to  heaven  he  could 
think  of  something  to  say. 

"You've  got  a  good  deal  out  of  your  course,  altogether, 
haven't  you?  I'll  be  interested  to  see  what  you  do  next 
year.  Your  work  has  been  very  satisfactory  to  me."  The 
Professor  went  back  into  his  study,  and  Claude  was  pleased 
to  see  that  he  carried  the  manuscript  with  him  and  did  not 
leave  it  on  the  table  with  the  others. 


XII 

BETWEEN  haying  and  harvest  that  summer  Ralph  and 
Mr.  Wheeler  drove  to  Denver  in  the  big  car,  leaving 
Claude  and  Dan  to  cultivate  the  corn.     When  they  re- 
turned Mr.  Wheeler  announced  that  he  had  a  secret.     After 
several  days  of  reticence,  during  which  he  shut  himself  up  in 
the  sitting-room  writing  letters,  and  passed  mysterious  words 
and  winks  with  Ralph  at  table,  he  disclosed  a  project  which 
swept  away  all  Claude's  plans  and  purposes. 

On  the  return  trip  from  Denver  Mr.  Wheeler  had  made  a 
detour  down  into  Yucca  county,  Colorado,  to  visit  an  old 
friend  who  was  in  difficulties.  Tom  Wested  was  a  Maine 
man,  from  Wheeler's  own  neighbourhood.  Several  years  ago 
he  had  lost  his  wife.  Now  his  health  had  broken  down,  and 
the  Denver  doctors  said  he  must  retire  from  business  and  get 
into  a  low  altitude.  He  wanted  to  go  back  to  Maine  and  live 
among  his  own  people,  but  was  too  much  discouraged  and 
frightened  about  his  condition  even  to  undertake  the  sale  of 
his  ranch  and  live  stock.  Mr.  Wheeler  had  been  able  to  help 
his  friend,  and  at  the  same  time  did  a  good  stroke  of  business 
for  himself.  He  owned  a  farm  in  Maine,  his  share  of  his 
father's  estate,  which  for  years  he  had  rented  for  little  more 
than  the  up-keep.  By  making  over  this  property,  and  assum- 
ing certain  mortgages,  he  got  Wested's  fine,  well-watered 
ranch  in  exchange.  He  paid  him  a  good  price  for  his  cattle, 
and  promised  to  take  the  sick  man  back  to  Maine  and  see  him 
comfortably  settled  there. 

65 


66  One  of  Ours 


All  this  Mr.  Wheeler  explained  to  his  family  when  he  called 
them  up  to  the  living  room  one  hot,  breathless  night  after 
supper.  Mrs.  Wheeler,  who  seldom  concerned  herself  with  her 
husband's  business  affairs,  asked  absently  why  they  bought 
more  land,  when  they  already  had  so  much  they  could  not  farm 
half  of  it. 

"Just  like  a  woman,  Evangeline,  just  like  a  woman!"  Mr. 
Wheeler  replied  indulgently.  He  was  sitting  in  the  full  glare 
of  the  acetyline  lamp,  his  neck-band  open,  his  collar  and  tie 
on  the  table  beside  him,  fanning  himself  with  a  palm-leaf  fan. 
"You  might  as  well  ask  me  why  I  want  to  make  more  money, 
when  I  haven't  spent  all  I've  got." 

He  intended,  he  said,  to  put  Ralph  on  the  Colorado  ranch 
and  "give  the  boy  some  responsibility."  Ralph  would  have 
the  help  of  Wested's  foreman,  an  old  hand  in  the  cattle 
business,  who  had  agreed  to  stay  on  under  the  new  manage- 
ment. Mr.  Wheeler  assured  his  wife  that  he  wasn't  taking  ad- 
vantage of  poor  Wested;  the  timber  on  the  Maine  place  was 
really  worth  a  good  deal  of  money ;  but  because  his  father  had 
always  been  so  proud  of  his  great  pine  woods,  he  had  never,  he 
said,  just  felt  like  turning  a  sawmill  loose  in  them.  Now  he 
was  trading  a  pleasant  old  farm  that  didn't  bring  in  anything 
for  a  grammar-grass  ranch  which  ought  to  turn  over  a  profit 
of  ten  or  twelve  thousand  dollars  in  good  cattle  years,  and 
wouldn't  lose  much  in  bad  ones.  He  expected  to  spend  abou! 
half  his  time  out  there  with  Ralph.  "When  I'm  away,"  he 
remarked  genially,  "you  and  Mahailey  won't  have  so  much 
to  do.  You  can  devote  yourselves  to  embroidery,  so  to  speak.'* 

"If  Ralph  is  to  live  in  Colorado,  and  you  are  to  be  away 
from  home  half  of  the  time,  I  don't  see  what  is  to  become  of 
this  place,"  murmured  Mrs.  Wheeler,  still  in  the  dark. 


On  Lovely  Creek  67 

"Not  necessary  for  you  to  see,  Evangeline,"  her  husband 
replied,  stretching  his  big  frame  until  the  rocking  chair  creaked 
under  him.  "It  will  be  Claude's  business  to  look  after  that." 

"Claude?"  Mrs.  Wheeler  brushed  a  lock  of  hair  back  from 
her  damp  forehead  in  vague  alarm. 

"Of  course."  He  looked  with  twinkling  eyes  at  his  son's 
straight,  silent  figure  in  the  corner.  "You've  had  about  enough 
theology,  I  presume?  No  ambition  to  be  a  preacher?  This 
winter  I  mean  to  turn  the  farm  over  to  you  and  give  you  a 
chance  to  straighten  things  out.  You've  been  dissatisfied  with 
the  way  the  place  is  run  for  some  time,  haven't  you?  Go 
ahead  and  put  new  blood  into  it.  New  ideas,  if  you  want  to ; 
I've  no  objection.  They're  expensive,  but  let  it  go.  You 
can  fire  Dan  if  you  want,  and  get  what  help  you  need." 

Claude  felt  as  if  a  trap  had  been  sprung  on  him.  He  shaded 
his  eyes  with  his  hand.  "I  don't  think  I'm  competent  to  run 
the  place  right,"  he  said  unsteadily. 

"Well,  you  don't  think  I  am  either,  Claude,  so  we're  up 
against  it.  It's  always  been  my  notion  that  the  land  was 
made  for  man,  just  as  it's  old  Dawson's  that  man  was  created 
to  work  the  land.  I  don't  mind  your  siding  with  the  Dawsons 
in  this  difference  of  opinion,  if  you  can  get  their  results." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  rose  and  slipped  quickly  from  the  room,  feel- 
ing her  way  down  the  dark  staircase  to  the  kitchen.  It  was 
dusky  and  quiet  there.  Mahailey  sat  in  a  corner,  hemming 
dish-towels  by  the  light  of  a  smoky  old  brass  lamp  which  was 
her  own  cherished  luminary.  Mrs.  Wheeler  walked  up  and 
down  the  long  room  in  soft,  silent  agitation,  both  hands  pressed 
tightly  to  her  breast,  where  there  was  a  physical  ache  of  sym- 
pathy for  Claude. 

She  remembered  kind  Tom  Wested.     He  had  stayed  over- 


68  One  of  Ours 


night  with  them  several  times,  and  had  come  to  them  for 
consolation  after  his  wife  died.  It  seemed  to  her  that  his  de- 
cline in  health  and  loss  of  courage,  Mr.  Wheeler's  fortuitous 
trip  to  Denver,  the  old  pine-wood  farm  in  Maine,  were  all 
things  that  fitted  together  and  made  a  net  to  envelop  her  un- 
fortunate son.  She  knew  that  he  had  been  waiting  impatiently 
for  the  autumn,  and  that  for  the  first  time  he  looked  forward 
eagerly  to  going  back  to  school.  He  was  homesick  for  his 
friends,  the  Erlichs,  and  his  mind  was  all  the  time  upon  the 
history  course  he  meant  to  take. 

Yet  all  this  would  weigh  nothing  in  the  family  councils  — 
probably  he  would  not  even  speak  of  it  —  and  he  had  not  one 
substantial  objection  to  offer  to  his  father's  wishes.  His  dis- 
appointment would  be  bitter.  "Why,  it  will  almost  break  his 
heart,"  she  murmured  aloud.  Mahailey  was  a  little  deaf  and 
heard  nothing.  She  sat  holding  her  work  up  to  the  light, 
driving  her  needle  with  a  big  brass  thimble,  nodding  with 
sleepiness  between  stitches.  Though  Mrs.  Wheeler  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  it,  the  old  woman's  presence  was  a  com- 
fort to  her,  as  she  walked  up  and  down  with  her  drifting, 
uncertain  step. 

She  had  left  the  sitting-room  because  she  was  afraid  Claude 
might  get  angry  and  say  something  hard  to  his  father,  and 
because  she  couldn't  bear  to  see  him  hectored.  Claude  had 
always  found  life  hard  to  live ;  he  suffered  so  much  over  little 
things, —  and  she  suffered  with  him.  For  herself,  she  never 
felt  disappointments.  Her  husband's  careless  decisions  did 
not  disconcert  her.  If  he  declared  that  he  would  not  plant 
a  garden  at  all  this  year,  she  made  no  protest.  It  was  Ma- 
hailey who  grumbled.  If  he  felt  like  eating  roast  beef  and 
went  out  and  killed  a  steer,  she  did  the  best  she  could  to  take 


On  Lovely  Creek  69 

care  of  the  meat,  and  if  some  of  it  spoiled  she  tried  not  to 
worry.  When  she  was  not  lost  in  religious  meditation,  she  was 
likely  to  be  thinking  about  some  one  of  the  old  books  she 
read  over  and  over.  Her  personal  life  was  so  far  removed 
from  the  scene  of  her  daily  activities  that  rash  and  violent  men 
could  not  break  in  upon  it.  But  where  Claude  was  concerned, 
she  lived  on  another  plane, —  dropped  into  the  lower  air,  tainted 
with  human  breath  and  pulsating  with  poor,  blind,  passionate 
human  feelings. 

It  had  always  been  so.  And  now,  as  she  grew  older,  and 
her  flesh  had  almost  ceased  to  be  concerned  with  pain  or 
pleasure,  like  the  wasted  wax  images  in  old  churches,  it  still 
vibrated  with  his  feelings  and  became  quick  again  for  him. 
His  chagrins  shrivelled  her.  When  he  was  hurt  and  suffered 
silently,  something  ached  in  her.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
he  was  happy,  a  wave  of  physical  contentment  went  through 
her.  If  she  wakened  in  the  night  and  happened  to  think  that 
he  had  been  happy  lately,  she  would  lie  softly  and  gratefully 
in  her  warm  place. 

"Rest,  rest  perturbed  spirit,''  she  sometimes  whispered  to 
him  in  her  mind,  when  she  wakened  thus  and  thought  of  him. 
There  was  a  singular  light  in  his  eyes  when  he  smiled  at  her 
on  one  of  his  good  days,  as  if  to  tell  her  that  all  was  well  in 
his  inner  kingdom.  She  had  seen  that  same  look  again  and 
again,  and  she  could  always  remember  it  in  the  dark, —  a  quick 
blue  flash,  tender  and  a  little  wild,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  vision 
or  glimpsed  bright  uncertainties. 


XIII 

THE  next  few  weeks  were  busy  ones  on  the  farm. 
Before  the  wheat  harvest  was  over,  Nat  Wheeler 
packed  his  leather  trunk,  put  on  his  "store  clothes," 
and  set  off  to  take  Tom  Wested  back  to  Maine.  During  his 
absence  Ralph  began  to  outfit  for  life  in  Yucca  county.  Ralph 
liked  being  a  great  man  with  the  Frankfort  merchants,  and  he 
had  never  before  had  such  an  opportunity  as  this.  He  bought 
a  new  shot  gun,  saddles,  bridles,  boots,  long  and  short  storm 
coats,  a  set  of  furniture  for  his  own  room,  a  fireless  cooker, 
another  music  machine,  and  had  them  shipped  to  Colorado. 
His  mother,  who  did  not  like  phonograph  music,  and  detested 
phonograph  monologues,  begged  him  to  take  the  machine  at 
home,  but  he  assured  her  that  she  would  be  dull  without  it  on 
winter  evenings.  He  wanted  one  of  the  latest  make,  put  out 
under  the  name  of  a  great  American  inventor. 

Some  of  the  ranches  near  Wested's  were  owned  by  New 
York  men  who  brought  their  families  out  there  in  the  summer. 
Ralph  had  heard  about  the  dances  they  gave,  and  he  was 
counting  on  being  one  of  the  guests.  He  asked  Claude  to 
give  him  his  dress  suit,  since  Claude  wouldn't  be  needing  it 
any  more. 

"You  can  have  it  if  you  want  it,"  said  Claude  indifferently. 
"But  it  won't  fit  you." 

"I'll  take  it  in  to  Fritz  and  have  the  pants  cut  off  a  little, 
and  the  shoulders  taken  in,"  his  brother  replied  lightly. 

Claude  was  impassive.  "Go  ahead.  But  if  that  old  Dutch- 
man takes  a  whack  at  it,  it  will  look  like  the  devil." 

70 


On  Lovely  Creek  71 

"I  think  I'll  let  him  try.  Father  won't  say  anything  about 
what  I've  ordered  for  the  house,  but  he  isn't  much  for 
glad  rags,  you  know."  Without  more  ado  he  threw  Claude's 
black  clothes  into  the  back  seat  of  the  Ford  and  ran  into  town 
to  enlist  the  services  of  the  German  tailor. 

Mr.  Wheeler,  when  he  returned,  thought  Ralph  had  been 
rather  free  in  expenditures,  but  Ralph  told  him  it  wouldn't 
do  to  take  over  the  new  place  too  modestly.  "The  ranchers 
out  there  are  all  high-fliers.  'If  we  go  to  squeezing  nickels, 
they  won't  think  we  mean  business." 

The  country  neighbours,  who  were  always  amused  at  the 
Wheelers'  doings,  got  almost  as  much  pleasure  out  of  Ralph's 
lavishness  as  he  did  himself.  One  said  Ralph  had  shipped  a 
new  piano  out  to  Yucca  county,  another  heard  he  had 
ordered  a  billiard  table.  August  Yoeder,  their  prosperous 
German  neighbour,  asked  grimly  whether  he  could,  maybe, 
get  a  place  as  hired  man  with  Ralph.  Leonard  Dawson,  who 
was  to  be  married  in  October,  hailed  Claude  in  town  one  day 
and  shouted ; 

"My  God,  Claude,  there's  nothing  left  in  the  furniture  store 
for  me  and  Susie !  Ralph's  bought  everything  but  the  coffins. 
He  must  be  going  to  live  like  a  prince  out  there." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  Claude  answered  coolly. 
"It's  not  my  enterprise." 

"No,  you've  got  to  stay  on  the  old  place  and  make  it  pay 
the  debts,  I  understand."  Leonard  jumped  into  his  car,  so 
that  Claude  wouldn't  have  a  chance  to  reply. 

Mrs.  Wheeler,  too,  when  she  observed  the  magnitude  of 
these  preparations,  began  to  feel  that  the  new  arrangement  was 
not  fair  to  Claude,  since  he  was  the  older  boy  and  much  the 
steadier.  Claude  had  always  worked  hard  when  he  was  at 


J2  One  of  Ours 


home,  and  made  a  good  field  hand,  while  Ralph  had  never 
done  much  but  tinker  with  machinery  and  run  errands  in  his 
car.  She  couldn't  understand  why  he  was  selected  to  manage 
an  undertaking  in  which  so  much  money  was  invested. 

"Why,  Claude,"  she  said  dreamily  one  day,  "if  your  father 
were  an  older  man,  I  would  almost  think  his  judgment  had 
begun  to  fail.  Won't  we  get  dreadfully  into  debt  at  this  rate?" 

"Don't  say  anything,  Mother.  It's  Father's  money.  He 
shan't  think  I  want  any  of  it." 

"I  wish  I  could  talk  to  Bayliss.     Has  he  said  anything?" 

"Not  to  me,  he  hasn't." 

Ralph  and  Mr.  Wheeler  took  another  flying  trip  to  Colo- 
rado, and  when  they  came  back  Ralph  began  coaxing  his  mother 
to  give  him  bedding  and  table  linen.  He  said  he  wasn't  going 
to  live  like  a  savage,  even  in  the  sand  hills.  Mahailey  was  out- 
raged to  see  the  linen  she  had  washed  and  ironed  and  taken 
care  of  for  so  many  years  packed  into  boxes.  She  was  out 
of  temper  most  of  the  time  now,  and  went  about  muttering  to 
herself. 

The  only  possessions  Mahailey  brought  with  her  when  she 
came  to  live  with  the  Wheelers,  were  a  feather  bed  and  three 
patchwork  quilts,  interlined  with  wool  off  the  backs  of  Vir- 
ginia sheep,  washed  and  carded  by  hand.  The  quilts  had  been 
made  by  her  old  mother,  and  given  to  her  for  a  marriage 
portion.  The  patchwork  on  each  was  done  in  a  different  de- 
sign; one  was  the  popular  "log-cabin"  pattern,  another  the 
"laurel-leaf,"  the  third  the  "blazing  star."  This  quilt  Ma- 
hailey thought  too  good  for  use,  and  she  had  told  Mrs.  Wheeler 
that  she  was  saving  it  "to  give  Mr.  Claude  when  he  got 
married." 

She  slept  on  her  feather  bed  in  winter,  and  in  summer  she 


On  Lovely  Creek  73 

put  it  away  in  the  attic.  The  attic  was  reached  by  a  ladder, 
which,  because  of  her  weak  back,  Mrs.  Wheeler  very  seldom 
climbed.  Up  there  Mahailey  had  things  her  own  way,  and 
thither  she  often  retired  to  air  the  bedding  stored  away  there, 
or  to  look  at  the  pictures  in  the  piles  of  old  magazines.  Ralph 
facetiously  called  the  attic  "Mahailey's  library." 

One  day,  while  things  were  being  packed  for  the  western 
ranch,  Mrs.  Wheeler,  going  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder  to  call 
Mahailey,  narrowly  escaped  being  knocked  down  by  a  large 
feather  bed  which  came  plumping  through  the  trap  door.  A 
moment  later  Mahailey  herself  descended  backwards,  hold- 
ing to  the  rungs  with  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  arm  carrying 
her  quilts. 

"Why,  Mahailey,"  gasped  Mrs.  Wheeler.  "It's  not  winter 
yet;  whatever  are  you  getting  your  bed  for?" 

"I'm  just  a-goin'  to  lay  on  my  fedder  bed,"  she  broke  out, 
"or  direc'ly  I  won't  have  none.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  Mr. 
Ralph  carryin'  off  my  quilts  my  mudder  pieced  fur  me." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  tried  to  reason  with  her,  but  the  old  woman 
took  up  her  bed  in  her  arms  and  staggered  down  the  hall  with 
it,  muttering  and  tossing  her  head  like  a  horse  in  fly-time. 

That  afternoon  Ralph  brought  a  barrel  and  a  bundle  of  straw 
into  the  kitchen  and  told  Mahailey  to  carry  up  preserves  and 
canned  fruit,  and  he  would  pack  them.  She  went  obediently 
to  the  cellar,  and  Ralph  took  off  his  coat  and  began  to  line  the 
barrel  with  straw.  He  was  some  time  in  doing  this,  but  still 
Mahailey  had  not  returned.  He  went  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs  and  whistled. 

"I'm  a-comin',  Mr.  Ralph,  I'm  a-comin' !  Don't  hurry  me, 
I  don't  want  to  break  nothin'." 

Ralph  waited  a  few  minutes.     "What  are  you  doing  down 


74  One  of  Ours 


there,  Mahailey?"  he  fumed.  "I  could  have  emptied  the  whole 
cellar  by  this  time.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  do  it  myself." 

"I'm  a-comin'.  You'd  git  yourself  all  dusty  down  here." 
She  came  breathlessly  up  the  stairs,  carrying  a  hamper  basket 
full  of  jars,  her  hands  and  face  streaked  with  black. 

"Well,  I  should  say  it  is  dusty !"  Ralph  snorted.  "You  might 
clean  your  fruit  closet  once  in  awhile,  you  know,  Mahailey. 
You  ought  to  see  how  Mrs.  Dawson  keeps  hers.  Now,  let's 
see."  He  sorted  the  jars  on  the  table.  "Take  back  the  grape 
jelly.  If  there's  anything  I  hate,  it's  grape  jelly.  I  know 
you  have  lots  of  it,  but  you  can't  work  it  off  on  me.  And 
when  you  come  up,  don't  forget  the  pickled  peaches.  I  told 
you  particularly,  the  pickled  peaches !" 

"We  ain't  got  no  pickled  peaches."  Mahailey  stood  by  the 
cellar  door,  holding  a  corner  of  her  apron  up  to  her  chin,  with 
a  queer,  animal  look  of  stubbornness  in  her  face. 

"No  pickled  peaches  ?  What  nonsense,  Mahailey !  I  saw 
you  making  them  here,  only  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"I  know  you  did,  Mr.  Ralph,  but  they  ain't  none  now.  I 
didn't  have  no  luck  with  my  peaches  this  year.  I  must  'a'  let 
the  air  git  at  'em.  They  all  worked  on  me,  an'  I  had  to  throw 
'em  out." 

Ralph  was  thoroughly  annoyed.  "I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing,  Mahailey!  You  get  more  careless  every  year.  Think 
of  wasting  all  that  fruit  and  sugar !  Does  mother  know  ?" 

Mahailey's  low  brow  clouded.  "I  reckon  she  does.  I  don't 
wase  your  mudder's  sugar.  I  never  did  wase  nothin',"  she 
muttered.  Her  speech  became  queerer  than  ever  when  she  was 
angry. 

Ralph  dashed  down  the  cellar  stairs,  lit  a  lantern,  and 
searched  the  fruit  closet.  Sure  enough,  there  were  no  pickled 


On  Lovely  Creek  75 

peaches.  When  he  came  back  and  began  packing  his  fruit, 
Mahailey  stood  watching  him  with  a  furtive  expression,  very 
much  like  the  look  that  is  in  a  chained  coyote's  eyes  when  a 
boy  is  showing  him  off  to  visitors  and  saying  he  wouldn't  run 
away  if  he  could. 

"Go  on  with  your  work,"  Ralph  snapped.  "Don't  stand 
there  watching  me !" 

That  evening  Claude  was  sitting  on  the  windmill  platform, 
down  by  the  barn,  after  a  hard  day's  work  ploughing  for  winter 
wheat.  He  was  solacing  himself  with  his  pipe.  No  matter 
how  much  she  loved  him,  or  how  sorry  she  felt  for  him,  his 
mother  could  never  bring  herself  to  tell  him  he  might  smoke 
in  the  house.  Lights  were  shining  from  the  upstairs  rooms  on 
the  hill,  and  through  the  open  windows  sounded  the  singing 
snarl  of  a  phonograph.  A  figure  came  stealing  down  the  path. 
He  knew  by  her  low,  padding  step  that  it  was  Mahailey,  with 
her  apron  thrown  over  her  head.  She  came  up  to  him  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  in  a  way  which  meant  that  what 
she  had  to  say  was  confidential. 

"Mr.  Claude,  Mr.  Ralph's  done  packed  up  a  barr'l  of  your 
mudder's  jelly  an'  pickles  to  take  out  there." 

"That's  all  right,  Mahailey.  Mr.  Wested  was  a  widower, 
and  I  guess  there  wasn't  anything  of  that  sort  put  up  at  his 
place." 

She  hesitated  and  bent  lower.  "He  asked  me  fur  them 
pickled  peaches  I  made  fur  you,  but  I  didn't  give  him  none. 
I  hid  'em  all  in  my  old  cook-stove  we  done  put  down  cellar 
when  Mr.  Ralph  bought  the  new  one.  I  didn't  give  him  your 
mudder's  new  preserves,  nudder.  I  give  him  the  old  last 
year's  stuff  we  had  left  over,  and  now  you  an'  your  mudder'll 
have  plenty." 


76  One  of  Ours 


Claude  laughed.  "Oh,  I  don't  care  if  Ralph  takes  all  the 
fruit  on  the  place,  Mahailey !" 

She  shrank  back  a  little,  saying  confusedly,  "No,  I  know 
you  don't,  Mr.  Claude.  I  know  you  don't." 

"I  surely  ought  not  to  take  it  out  on  her,"  Claude  thought, 
when  he  saw  her  disappointment.  He  rose  and  patted  her  on 
the  back.  "That's  all  right,  Mahailey.  Thank  you  for  saving 
the  peaches,  anyhow." 

She  shook  her  finger  at  him.     "Don't  you  let  on !" 

He  promised,  and  watched  her  slipping  back  over  the  zig- 
zag path  up  the  hill. 


XIV 

RALPH  and  his  father  moved  to  the  new  ranch  the  last 
of  August,  and  Mr.  Wheeler  wrote  back  that  late  in 
the  fall  he  meant  to  ship  a  carload  of  grass  steers  to 
the  home  farm  to  be  fattened  during  the  winter.  This,  Claude 
saw,  would  mean  a  need  for  fodder.  There  was  a  fifty-acre 
corn  field  west  of  the  creek, —  just  on  the  sky-line  when  one 
looked  out  from  the  west  windows  of  the  house.  Claude  de- 
cided to  put  this  field  into  winter  wheat,  and  early  in  Septem- 
ber he  began  to  cut  and  bind  the  corn  that  stood  upon  it  for 
fodder.  As  soon  as  the  corn  was  gathered,  he  would  plough 
up  the  ground,  and  drill  in  the  wheat  when  he  planted  the 
other  wheat  fields. 

This  was  Claude's  first  innovation,  and  it  did  not  meet  with 
approval.  When  Bayliss  came  out  to  spend  Sunday  with  his 
mother,  he  asked  her  what  Claude  thought  he  was  doing,  any- 
how. If  he  wanted  to  change  the  crop  on  that  field,  why 
didn't  he  plant  oats  in  the  spring,  and  then  get  into  wheat  next 
fall?  Cutting  fodder  and  preparing  the  ground  now,  would 
only  hold  him  back  in  his  work.  When  Mr.  Wheeler  came 
home  for  a  short  visit,  he  jocosely  referred  to  that  quarter  as 
"Claude's  wheat  field." 

Claude  went  ahead  with  what  he  had  undertaken  to  do,  but 
all  through  September  he  was  nervous  and  apprehensive  about 
the  weather.  Heavy  rains,  if  they  came,  would  make  him  late 
with  his  wheat-planting,  and  then  there  would  certainly  be 
criticism.  In  reality,  nobody  cared  much  whether  the  planting 

77 


78  One  of  Ours 


was  late  or  not,  but  Claude  thought  they  did,  and  sometimes  in 
the  morning  he  awoke  in  a  state  of  panic  because  he  wasn't 
getting  ahead  faster.  He  had  Dan  and  one  of  August  Yoeder's 
four  sons  to  help  him,  and  he  worked  early  and  late.  The 
new  field  he  ploughed  and  drilled  himself.  He  put  a  great  deal 
of  young  energy  into  it,  and  buried  a  great  deal  of  discontent 
in  its  dark  furrows.  Day  after  day  he  flung  himself  upon  the 
land  and  planted  it  with  what  was  fermenting  in  him,  glad  to 
be  so  tired  at  night  that  he  could  not  think. 

Ralph  came  home  for  Leonard  Dawson's  wedding,  on  the 
first  of  October.  All  the  Wheelers  went  to  the  wedding, 
even  Mahailey,  and  there  was  a  great  gathering  of  the  country 
folk  and  townsmen. 

After  Ralph  left,  Claude  had  the  place  to  himself  again,  and 
the  work  went  on  as  usual.  The  stock  did  well,  and  there  were 
no  vexatious  interruptions.  The  fine  weather  held,  and  every 
morning  when  Claude  got  up,  another  gold  day  stretched  be- 
fore him  like  a  glittering  carpet,  leading.  .  .  ?  When  the 
question  where  the  days  were  leading  struck  him  on  the  edge 
of  his  bed,  he  hurried  to  dress  and  get  down-stairs  in  time  to 
fetch  wood  and  coal  for  Mahailey.  They  often  reached  the 
kitchen  at  the  same  moment,  and  she  would  shake  her  finger 
at  him  and  say,  "You  come  down  to  help  me,  you  nice  boy, 
you !"  At  least  he  was  of  some  use  to  Mahailey.  His  father 
could  hire  one  of  the  Yoeder  boys  to  look  after  the  place,  but 
Mahailey  wouldn't  let  any  one  else  save  her  old  back. 

Mrs.  Wheeler,  as  well  as  Mahailey,  enjoyed  that  fall.  She 
slept  late  in  the  morning,  and  read  and  rested  in  the  afternoon. 
She  made  herself  some  new  house-dresses  out  of  a  grey 
material  Claude  chose.  "It's  almost  like  being  a  bride,  keep- 
ing house  for  just  you,  Claude,"  she  sometimes  said. 


On  Lovely  Creek  79 

Soon  Claude  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  blush  of  green 
come  up  over  his  brown  wheat  fields,  visible  first  in  the  dimples 
and  little  hollows,  then  flickering  over  the  knobs  and  levels 
like  a  fugitive  smile.  He  watched  the  green  blades  coming 
every  day,  when  he  and  Dan  went  afield  with  their  wagons 
to  gather  corn.  Claude  sent  Dan  to  shuck  on  the  north 
quarter,  and  he  worked  on  the  south.  He  always  brought 
in  one  more  load  a  day  than  Dan  did, —  that  was  to  be 
expected.  Dan  explained  this  very  reasonably,  Claude 
thought,  one  afternoon  when  they  were  hooking  up  their 
teams. 

"It's  all  right  for  you  to  jump  at  that  corn  like  you  was 
a-beating  carpets,  Claude;  it's  your  corn,  or  anyways  it's 
your  Paw's.  Them  fields  will  always  lay  betwixt  you  and 
trouble.  But  a  hired  man's  got  no  property  but  his  back,  and 
he  has  to  save  it.  I  figure  that  I've  only  got  about  so  many 
jumps  left  in  me,  and  I  ain't  a-going  to  jump  too  hard  at  no 
man's  corn." 

"What's  the  matter?  I  haven't  been  hinting  that  you  ought 
to  jump  any  harder,  have  I?" 

"No,  you  ain't,  but  I  just  want  you  to  know  that  there's 
reason  in  all  things."  With  this  Dan  got  into  his  wagon  and 
drove  off.  He  had  probably  been  meditating  upon  this  dec- 
laration for  some  time. 

That  afternoon  Claude  suddenly  stopped  flinging  white  ears 
into  the  wagon  beside  him.  It  was  about  five  o'clock,  the 
yellowest  hour  of  the  autumn  day.  He  stood  lost  in  a  forest 
of  light,  dry,  rustling  corn  leaves,  quite  hidden  away  from  the 
world.  Taking  off  his  husking-gloves,  he  wiped  the  sweat 
from  his  face,  climbed  up  to  the  wagon  box,  and  lay  down  on 
the  ivory-coloured  corn.  The  horses  cautiously  advanced  a 


80  One  of  Ours 


step  or  two,  and  munched  with  great  content  at  ears  they  tore 
from  the  stalks  with  their  teeth. 

Claude  lay  still,  his  arms  under  his  head,  looking  up  at  the 
hard,  polished  blue  sky,  watching  the  flocks  of  crows  go  over 
from  the  fields  where  they  fed  on  shattered  grain,  to  their  nests 
in  the  trees  along  Lovely  Creek.  He  was  thinking  about  what 
Dan  had  said  while  they  were  hitching  up.  There  was  a  great 
deal  of  truth  in  it,  certainly.  Yet,  as  for  him,  he  often  felt 
that  he  would  rather  go  out  into  the  world  and  earn  his  bread 
among  strangers  than  sweat  under  this  half-responsibility 
for  acres  and  crops  that  were  not  his  own.  He  knew  that  his 
father  was  sometimes  called  a  "land  hog"  by  the  country  people, 
and  he  himself  had  begun  to  feel  that  it  was  not  right  they 
should  have  so  much  land, —  to  farm,  or  to  rent,  or  to  leave 
idle,  as  they  chose.  It  was  strange  that  in  all  the  centuries 
the  world  had  been  going,  the  question  of  property  had  not 
been  better  adjusted.  The  people  who  had  it  were  slaves  to 
it,  and  the  people  who  didn't  have  it  were  slaves  to  them. 

He  sprang  down  into  the  gold  light  to  finish  his  load. 
Warm  silence  nestled  over  the  cornfield.  Sometimes  a  light 
breeze  rose  for  a  moment  and  rattled  the  stiff,  dry  leaves, 
and  he  himself  made  a  great  rustling  and  crackling  as  he  tore 
the  husks  from  the  ears. 

Greedy  crows  were  still  cawing  about  before  they  flapped 
homeward.  When  he  drove  out  to  the  highway,  the  sun  was 
going  down,  and  from  his  seat  on  the  load  he  could  see  far  and 
near.  Yonder  was  Dan's  wagon,  coming  in  from  the  north 
quarter;  over  there  was  the  roof  of  Leonard  Dawson's  new 
house,  and  his  windmill,  standing  up  black  in  the  declining 
day.  Before  him  were  the  bluffs  of  the  pasture,  and  the  little 


On  Lovely  Creek 


81 


trees,  almost  bare,  huddled  in  violet  shadow  along  the  creek, 
and  the  Wheeler  farm-house  on  the  hill,  its  windows  all  aflame 
with  the  last  red  fire  of  the  sun. 


XV 

CLAUDE  dreaded  the  inactivity  of  the  winter,  to  which 
the  farmer  usually  looks  forward  with  pleasure.  He 
made  the  Thanksgiving  football  game  a  pretext  for 
going  up  to  Lincoln, —  went  intending  to  stay  three  days  and 
stayed  ten.  The  first  night,  when  he  knocked  at  the  glass  door 
of  the  Erlichs'  sitting-room  and  took  them  by  surprise,  he 
thought  he  could  never  go  back  to  the  farm.  Approaching 
the  house  on  that  clear,  frosty  autumn  evening,  crossing  the 
lawn  strewn  with  crackling  dry  leaves,  he  told  himself  that  he 
must  not  hope  to  find  things  the  same.  But  they  were  the 
same.  The  boys  were  lounging  and  smoking  about  the  square 
table  with  the  lamp  on  it,  and  Mrs.  Erlich  was  at  the  piano, 
playing  one  of  Mendelssohn's  "Songs  Without  Words."  When 
he  knocked,  Otto  opened  the  door  and  called : 

"A  surprise  for  you,  Mother !  Guess  who's  here." 
What  a  welcome  she  gave  him,  and  how  much  she  had  to 
tell  him!  While  they  were  all  talking  at  once,  Henry,  the 
oldest  son,  came  downstairs  dressed  for  a  Colonial  ball,  with 
satin  breeches  and  stockings  and  a  sword.  His  brothers 
began  to  point  out  the  inaccuracies  of  his  costume,  telling  him 
that  he  couldn't  possibly  call  himself  a  French  emigre  unless 
he  wore  a  powdered  wig.  Henry  took  a  book  of  memoirs 
from  the  shelf  to  prove  to  them  that  at  the  time  when  the 
French  emigres  were  coming  to  Philadelphia,  powder  was 
going  out  of  fashion. 

During  this  discussion,  Mrs.  Erlich  drew  Claude  aside  and 

82 


On  Lovely  Creek 


told  him  in  excited  whispers  that  her  cousin  Wilhelmina,  the 
singer,  had  at  last  been  relieved  of  the  invalid  husband  whom 
she  had  supported  for  so  many  years,  and  now  was  going  to 
marry  her  accompanist,  a  man  much  younger  than  herself. 

After  the  French  emigre  had  gone  off  to  his  party,  two  young 
instructors  from  the  University  dropped  in,  and  Mrs.  Erlich 
introduced  Claude  as  her  "landed  proprietor"  who  managed  a 
big  ranch  out  in  one  of  the  western  counties.  The  instruc- 
tors took  their  leave  early,  but  Claude  stayed  on.  What  was 
it  that  made  life  seem  so  much  more  interesting  and  attractive 
here  than  elsewhere?  There  was  nothing  wonderful  about 
this  room ;  a  lot  of  books,  a  lamp  .  .  .  comfortable,  hard-used 
furniture,  some  people  whose  lives  were  in  no  way  remarkable 
—  and  yet  he  had  the  sense  of  being  in  a  warm  and  gracious 
atmosphere,  charged  with  generous  enthusiasms  and  ennobled 
by  romantic  friendships.  He  was  glad  to  see  the  same 
pictures  on  the  wall;  to  find  the  Swiss  wood-cutter  on  the 
mantel,  still  bending  under  his  load  of  faggots ;  to  handle 
again  the  heavy  brass  paper-knife  that  in  its  time  had  cut 
so  many  interesting  pages.  He  picked  it  up  from  the  cover 
of  a  red  book  lying  there, —  one  of  Trevelyan's  volumes  on 
Garibaldi,  which  Julius  told  him  he  must  read  before  he  was 
another  week  older. 

The  next  afternoon  Claude  took  Mrs.  Erlich  to  the  football 
game  and  came  home  with  the  family  for  dinner.  He  lingered 
on  day  after  day,  but  after  the  first  few  evenings  his  heart 
was  growing  a  little  heavier  all  the  time.  The  Erlich  boys 
had  so  many  new  interests  he  couldn't  keep  up  with  them; 
they  had  been  going  on,  and  he  had  been  standing  still.  He 
wasn't  conceited  enough  to  mind  that.  The  thing  that  hurt 
was  the  feeling  of  being  out  of  it,  of  being  lost  in  another 


84  One  of  Ours 


kind  of  life  in  which  ideas  played  but  little  part.  He  was  a 
stranger  who  walked  in  and  sat  down  here ;  but  he  belonged  out 
in  the  big,  lonely  country,  where  people  worked  hard  with 
their  backs  and  got  tired  like  the  horses,  and  were  too  sleepy 
at  night  to  think  of  anything  to  say.  If  Mrs.  Erlich  and  her 
Hungarian  woman  made  lentil  soup  and  potato  dumplings 
and  Wiener-Schnitzel  for  him,  it  only  made  the  plain  fare  on 
the  farm  seem  the  heavier. 

When  the  second  Friday  came  round,  he  went  to  bid  his 
friends  good-bye  and  explained  that  he  must  be  going  home 
tomorrow.  On  leaving  the  house  that  night,  he  looked  back 
at  the  ruddy  windows  and  told  himself  that  it  was  good-bye 
indeed,  and  not,  as  Mrs.  Erlich  had  fondly  said,  auf  wicdersehen. 
Coming  here  only  made  him  more  discontented  with  his  lot; 
his  frail  claim  on  this  kind  of  life  existed  no  longer.  He  must 
settle  down  into  something  that  was  his  own,  take  hold  of  it 
with  both  hands,  no  matter  how  grim  it  was.  The  next  day, 
during  his  journey  out  through  the  bleak  winter  country,  he 
felt  that  he  was  going  deeper  and  deeper  into  reality. 

Claude  had  not  written  when  he  would  be  home,  but  on 
Saturday  there  were  always  some  of  the  neighbours  in  town. 
He  rode  out  with  one  of  the  Yoeder  boys,  and  from  their  place 
walked  on  the  rest  of  the  way.  He  told  his  mother  he  was  glad 
to  be  back  again.  He  sometimes  felt  as  if  it  were  disloyal 
to  her  for  him  to  be  so  happy  with  Mrs.  Erlich.  His  mother 
had  been  shut  away  from  the  world  on  a  farm  for  so  many 
years ;  and  even  before  that,  Vermont  was  no  very  stimulating 
place  to  grow  up  in,  he  guessed.  She  had  not  had  a  chance, 
any  more  than  he  had,  at  those  things  which  make  the  mind 
more  supple  and  keep  the  feeling  young. 

The  next  morning  it  was  snowing  outside,  and  they  had  a 


On  Lovely  Creek  85 


long,  pleasant  Sunday  breakfast.  Mrs.  Wheeler  said  they 
wouldn't  try  to  go  to  church,  as  Claude  must  be  tired.  He 
worked  about  the  place  until  noon,  making  the  stock  comfor- 
table and  looking  after  things  that  Dan  had  neglected  in  his 
absence.  After  dinner  he  sat  down  at  the  secretary  and  wrote 
a  long  letter  to  his  friends  in  Lincoln.  Whenever  he  lifted 
his  eyes  for  a  moment,  he  saw  the  pasture  bluffs  and  the  softly 
falling  snow.  There  was  something  beautiful  about  the  sub- 
missive way  in  which  the  country  met  winter.  It  made  one 
contented, —  sad,  too.  He  sealed  his  letter  and  lay  down  on 
the  couch  to  read  the  paper,  but  was  soon  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  the  afternoon  was  already  far  gone.  The 
clock  on  the  shelf  ticked  loudly  in  the  still  room,  the  coal  stove 
sent  out  a  warm  glow.  The  blooming  plants  in  the  south 
bow-window  looked  brighter  and  fresher  than  usual  in  the  soft 
white  light  that  came  up  from  the  snow.  Mrs.  Wheeler  was 
reading  by  the  west  window,  looking  away  from  her  book  now 
and  then  to  gaze  off  at  the  grey  sky  and  the  muffled  fields. 
The  creek  made  a  winding  violet  chasm  down  through  the 
pasture,  and  the  trees  followed  it  in  a  black  thicket,  curiously 
tufted  with  snow.  Claude  lay  for  some  time  without  speaking, 
watching  his  mother's  profile  against  the  glass,  and  thinking 
how  good  this  soft,  clinging  snow-fall  would  be  for  his  wheat 
fields. 

"What  are  you  reading,  Mother?"  he  asked  presently. 

She  turned  her  head  toward  him.  "Nothing  very  new.  I 
was  just  beginning  'Paradise  Lost'  again.  I  haven't  read  it 
for  a  long  while." 

"Read  aloud,  won't  you?  Just  wherever  you  happen  to  be. 
I  like  the  sound  of  it." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  always  read  deliberately,  giving  each  syllable 


86  One  of  Ours 


its  full  value.  Her  voice,  naturally  soft  and  rather  wistful, 
trailed  over  the  long  measures  and  the  threatening  Biblical 
names,  all  familiar  to  her  and  full  of  meaning. 

"A  dungeon  horrible,  on  all  sides  round 
As  one  great  furnace  flamed;  yet  from  the  flames 
No   light,  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe." 

Her  voice  groped  as  if  she  were  trying  to  realize  something. 
The  room  was  growing  greyer  as  she  read  on  through  the 
turgid  catalogue  of  the  heathen  gods,  so  packed  with  stories 
and  pictures,  so  unaccountably  glorious.  At  last  the  light 
failed,  and  Mrs.  Wheeler  closed  the  book. 

"That's  fine,"  Claude  commented  from  the  couch.  "But 
Milton  couldn't  have  got  along  without  the  wicked,  could  he?" 

Mrs.  Wheeler  looked  up.     "Is  that  a  joke?"  she  asked  slyly. 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all!  It  just  struck  me  that  this  part  is  so 
much  more  interesting  than  the  books  -about  perfect  innocence 
in  Eden." 

"And  yet  I  suppose  it  shouldn't  be  so,"  Mrs.  Wheeler  said 
slowly,  as  if  in  doubt. 

Her  son  laughed  and  sat  up,  smoothing  his  rumpled  hair. 
"The  fact  remains  that  it  is,  dear  Mother.  And  if  you  took 
all  the  great  sinners  out  of  the  Bible,  you'd  take  out  all  the 
interesting  characters,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Except  Christ,"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,  except  Christ.  But  I  suppose  the  Jews  were  honest 
when  they  thought  him  the  most  dangerous  kind  of  criminal." 

"Are  you  trying  to  tangle  me  up?"  his  mother  inquired, 
with  both  reproach  and  amusement  in  her  voice. 

Claude  went  to  the  window  where  she  was  sitting,  and  looked 


On  Lovely   Creek  87 

out  at  the  snowy  fields,  now  becoming  blue  and  desolate  as 
the  shadows  deepened.  "I  only  mean  that  even  in  the  Bible 
the  people  who  were  merely  free  from  blame  didn't  amount  to 
much." 

"Ah,  I  see!"  Mrs.  Wheeler  chuckled  softly.  "You  are 
trying  to  get  me  back  to  Faith  and  Works.  There's  where 
you  always  balked  when  you  were  a  little  fellow.  Well, 
Claude,  I  don't  know  as  much  about  it  as  I  did  then.  As  I 
get  older,  I  leave  a  good  deal  more  to  God.  I  believe  He 
wants  to  save  whatever  is  noble  in  this  world,  and  that  He 
knows  more  ways  of  doing  it  than  I."  She  rose  like  a  gentle 
shadow  and  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  flannel  shirt-sleeve, 
murmuring,  "I  believe  He  is  sometimes  where  we  would  least 
expect  to  find  Him, —  even  in  proud,  rebellious  hearts." 

For  a  moment  they  clung  together  in  the  pale,  clear  square 
of  the  west  window,  as  the  two  natures  in  one  person  some- 
times meet  and  cling  in  a  fated  hour. 


XVI 

RALPH  and  his  father  came  home  to  spend  the  holi- 
days, and  on  Christmas  day  Bayliss  drove  out  from 
town  for  dinner.  He  arrived  early,  and  after  greet- 
ing his  mother  in  the  kitchen,  went  up  to  the  sitting-room, 
which  shone  with  a  holiday  neatness,  and,  for  once,  was  warm 
enough  for  Bayliss, —  having  a  low  circulation,  he  felt  the 
cold  acutely.  He  walked  up  and  down,  jingling  the  keys  in 
his  pockets  and  admiring  his  mother's  winter  chrysanthemums, 
which  were  still  blooming.  Several  times  he  paused  before  the 
old-fashioned  secretary,  looking  through  the  glass  doors  at  the 
volumes  within.  The  sight  of  some  of  those  books  awoke 
disagreeable  memories.  When  he  was  a  boy  of  fourteen 
or  fifteen,  it  used  to  make  him  bitterly  jealous  to  hear  his 
mother  coaxing  Claude  to  read  aloud  to  her.  Bayliss  had 
never  been  bookish.  Even  before  he  could  read,  when  his 
mother  told  him  stories,  he  at  once  began  to  prove  to  her  how 
they  could  not  possibly  be  true.  Later  he  found  arithmetic 
and  geography  more  interesting  than  "Robinson  Crusoe."  If 
he  sat  down  with  a  book,  he  wanted  to  feel  that  he  was  learning 
something.  His  mother  and  Claude  were  always  talking  over 
his  head  about  the  people  in  books  and  stories. 

Though  Bayliss  had  a  sentimental  feeling  about  coming 
home,  he  considered  that  he  had  had  a  lonely  boyhood.  At 
the  country  school  he  had  not  been  happy ;  he  was  the  boy 
who  always  got  the  answers  to  the  test  problems  when  the 
others  didn't,  and  he  kept  his  arithmetic  papers  buttoned  up  in 


On  Lovely   Creek  89 

the  inside  pocket  of  his  little  jacket  until  he  modestly  handed 
them  to  the  teacher,  never  giving  a  neighbour  the  benefit  of 
his  cleverness.  Leonard  Dawson  and  other  lusty  lads  of  his 
own  age  made  life  as  terrifying  for  him  as  they  could.  In 
winter  they  used  to  throw  him  into  a  snow-drift,  and  then  run 
away  and  leave  him.  In  summer  they  made  him  eat  live  grass- 
hoppers behind  the  schoolhouse,  and  put  big  bull-snakes  in 
his  dinner  pail  to  surprise  him.  To  this  day,  Bayliss  liked  to 
see  one  of  those  fellows  get  into  difficulties  that  his  big  fists 
couldn't  get  him  out  of. 

It  was  because  Bayliss  was  quick  at  figures  and  undersized 
for  a  farmer  that  his  father  sent  him  to  town  to  learn  the  im- 
plement business.  From  the  day  he  went  to  work,  he  managed 
to  live  on  his  small  salary.  He  kept  in  his  vest  pocket  a  little 
day-book  wherein  he  noted  down  all  his  expenditures, —  like 
the  millionaire  about  whom  the  Baptist  preachers  were  never 
tired  of  talking, —  and  his  offering  to  the  contribution  box 
stood  out  conspicuous  in  his  weekly  account. 

In  Bayliss'  voice,  even  when  he  used  his  insinuating  drawl 
and  said  disagreeable  things,  there  was  something  a  little 
plaintive;  the  expression  of  a  deep-seated  sense  of  injury.  He 
felt  that  he  had  always  been  misunderstood  and  underesti- 
mated. Later  after  he  went  into  business  for  himself,  the 
young  men  of  Frankfort  had  never  urged  him  to  take  part  in 
their  pleasures.  He  had  not  been  asked  to  join  the  tennis 
club  or  the  whist  club.  He  envied  Claude  his  fine  physique 
and  his  unreckoning,  impulsive  vitality,  as  if  they  had  been 
given  to  his  brother  by  unfair  means  and  should  rightly  have 
been  his. 

Bayliss  and  his  father  were  talking  together  before  dinner 
when  Claude  came  in  and  was  so  inconsiderate  as  to  put  up  a 


90  One  of  Ours 


window,  though  he  knew  his  brother  hated  a  draft.  In  a  mo- 
ment Bayliss  addressed  him  without  looking  at  him: 

"I  see  your  friends,  the  Erlichs,  have  bought  out  the  Jenkin- 
son  company,  in  Lincoln ;  at  least,  they've  given  their  notes." 

Claude  had  promised  his  mother  to  keep  his  temper  today. 
"Yes,  I  saw  it  in  the  paper.  I  hope  they'll  succeed." 

"I  doubt  it."  Bayliss  shook  his  head  with  his  wisest  look. 
"I  understand  they've  put  a  mortgage  on  their  home.  That 
old  woman  will  find  herself  without  a  roof  one  of  these  days." 

"I  don't  think  so.  The  boys  have  wanted  to  go  into  busi- 
ness together  for  a  long  while.  They  are  all  intelligent  and 
industrious;  why  shouldn't  they  get  on?"  Claude  flattered 
himself  that  he  spoke  in  an  easy,  confidential  way. 

Bayliss  screwed  up  his  eyes.  "I  expect  they're  too  fond 
of  good  living.  They'll  pay  their  interest,  and  spend  what- 
ever's  left  entertaining  their  friends.  I  didn't  see  the  young 
fellow's  name  in  the  notice  of  incorporation, — Julius,  do  they 
call  him?" 

"Julius  is  going  abroad  to  study  this  fall.  He  intends  to  be 
a  professor." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him  ?    Does  he  have  poor  health  ?" 

At  this  moment  the  dinner  bell  sounded,  Ralph  ran  down 
from  his  room  where  he  had  been  dressing,  and  they  all  de- 
scended to  the  kitchen  to  greet  the  turkey.  The  dinner  pro- 
gressed pleasantly.  Bayliss  and  his  father  talked  politics,  and 
Ralph  told  stories  about  his  neighbours  in  Yucca  county.  Bay- 
liss was  pleased  that  his  mother  had  remembered  he  liked  oys- 
ter stuffing,  and  he  complimented  her  upon  her  mince  pies. 
When  he  saw  her  pour  a  second  cup  of  coffee  for  herseif  and 
for  Claude  at  the  end  of  dinner,  he  said,  in  a  gentle,  grieved 
tone,  "I'm  sorry  to  see  you  taking  two,  Mother." 


On  Lovely   Creek  91 

Mrs.  Wheeler  looked  at  him  over  the  coffee-pot  with  a  droll, 
guilty  smile.  "I  don't  believe  coffee  hurts  me  a  particle,  Bay- 
liss." 

"Of  course  it  does;  it's  a  stimulant."  What  worse  could  it 
be,  his  tone  implied!  When  you  said  anything  was  a  "stimu- 
lant," you  had  sufficiently  condemned  it;  there  was  no  more 
noxious  word. 

Claude  was  in  the  upper  hall,  putting  on  his  coat  to  go  down 
to  the  barn  and  smoke  a  cigar,  when  Bayliss  came  out  from  the 
sitting-room  and  detained  him  by  an  indefinite  remark. 

"I  believe  there's  to  be  a  musical  show  in  Hastings  Saturday 
night." 

Claude  said  he  had  heard  something  of  the  sort. 

"I  was  thinking,"  Bayliss  affected  a  careless  tone,  as  if  he 
thought  of  such  things  every  day,  "that  we  might  make  a  party 
and  take  Gladys  and  Enid.  The  roads  are  pretty  good." 

"It's  a  hard  drive  home,  so  late  at  night,"  Claude  objected. 
Bayliss  meant,  of  course,  that  Claude  should  drive  the  party  up 
and  back  in  Mr.  Wheeler's  big  car.  Bayliss  never  used  his 
glistening  Cadillac  for  long,  rough  drives. 

"I  guess  Mother  would  put  us  up  overnight,  and  we  needn't 
take  the  girls  home  till  Sunday  morning.  I'll  get  the  tickets." 

"You'd  better  arrange  it  with  the  girls,  then.  I'll  drive  you, 
of  course,  if  you  want  to  go." 

Claude  escaped  and  went  out,  wishing  that  Bayliss  would  do 
his  own  courting  and  not  drag  him  into  it.  Bayliss,  who  didn't 
know  one  tune  from  another,  certainly  didn't  want  to  go  to  this 
concert,  and  it  was  doubtful  whether  Enid  Royce  would  care 
much  about  going.  Gladys  Farmer  was  the  best  musician  in 
Frankfort,  and  she  would  probably  like  to  hear  it. 

Claude  and  Gladys  were  old  friends,  from  their  High  School 


92  One  of  Ours 


days,  though  they  hadn't  seen  much  of  each  other  while  he  was 
going  to  college.  Several  times  this  fall  Bayliss  had  asked 
Claude  to  go  somewhere  with  him  on  a  Sunday,  and  then 
stopped  to  "pick  Gladys  up/'  as  he  said.  Claude  didn't  like  it. 
He  was  disgusted,  anyhow,  when  he  saw  that  Bayliss  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  marry  Gladys.  She  and  her  mother  were  so 
poor  that  he  would  probably  succeed  in  the  end,  though  so  far 
Gladys  didn't  seem  to  give  him  much  encouragement.  Marry- 
ing Bayliss,  he  thought,  would  be  no  joke  for  any  woman,  but 
Gladys  was  the  one  girl  in  town  whom  he  particularly  ought 
not  to  marry.  She  was  as  extravagant  as  she  was  poor. 
Though  she  taught  in  the  Frankfort  High  School  for  twelve 
hundred  a  year,  she  had  prettier  clothes  than  any  of  the  other 
girls,  except  Enid  Royce,  whose  father  was  a  rich  man.  Her 
new  hats  and  suede  shoes  were  discussed  and  criticized  year  in 
and  year  out.  People  said  if  she  married  Bayliss  Wheeler,  he 
would  soon  bring  her  down  to  hard  facts.  Some  hoped  she 
would,  and  some  hoped  she  wouldn't.  As  for  Claude,  he  had 
kept  away  from  Mrs.  Farmer's  cheerful  parlour  ever  since 
Bayliss  had  begun  to  drop  in  there.  He  was  disappointed  in 
Gladys.  When  he  was  offended,  he  seldom  stopped  to  reason 
about  his  state  of  feeling.  He  avoided  the  person  and  the 
thought  of  the  person,  as  if  it  were  a  sore  spot  in  his  mind. 


XVII 

IT  had  been  Mr.  Wheeler's  intention  to  stay  at  home  until 
spring,  but  Ralph  wrote  that  he  was  having  trouble  with 
his  foreman,  so  his  father  went  out  to  the  ranch  in  Febru- 
ary. A  few  days  after  his  departure  there  was  a  storm  which 
gave  people  something  to  talk  about  for  a  year  to  come. 

The  snow  began  to  fall  about  noon  on  St.  Valentine's  day,  a 
soft,  thick,  wet  snow  that  came  down  in  billows  and  stuck  to 
everything.  Later  in  the  afternoon  the  wind  rose,  and  wher- 
ever there  was  a  shed,  a  tree,  a  hedge,  or  even  a  clump  of  tall 
weeds,  drifts  began  to  pile  up.  Mrs.  Wheeler,  looking  anx- 
iously out  from  the  sitting-room  windows,  could  see  nothing 
but  driving  waves  of  soft  white,  which  cut  the  tall  house  off 
from  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Claude  and  Dan,  down  in  the  corral,  where  they  were  provi- 
sioning the  cattle  against  bad  weather,  found  the  air  so  thick 
that  they  could  scarcely  breathe;  their  ears  and  mouths  and 
nostrils  were  full  of  snow,  their  faces  plastered  with  it.  It 
melted  constantly  upon  their  clothing,  and  yet  they  were  white 
from  their  boots  to  their  caps  as  they  worked, —  there  was  no 
shaking  it  off.  The  air  was  not  cold,  only  a  little  below  freez- 
ing. When  they  came  in  for  supper,  the  drifts  had  piled 
against  the  house  until  they  covered  the  lower  sashes  of  the 
kitchen  windows,  and  as  they  opened  the  door,  a  frail  wall  of 
snow  fell  in  behind  them.  Mahailey  came  running  with  her 
broom  and  pail  to  sweep  it  up. 

"Ain't  it  a  turrible  storm,  Mr.  Claude?  I  reckon  poor  Mr. 
Ernest  won't  git  over  tonight,  will  he?  You  never  mind, 

93 


94  One  of  Ours 


honey ;  I'll  wipe  up  that  water.  Run  along  and  git  dry  clothes 
on  you,  an*  take  a  bath,  or  you'll  ketch  cold.  Thr  ole  tank's 
full  of  hot  water  for  you."  Exceptional  weather  of  any  kind 
always  delighted  Mahailey. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  met  Claude  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "There's 
no  danger  of  the  steers  getting  snowed  under  along  the  creek, 
is  there  ?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  I  thought  of  that.  We've  driven  them  all  into  the 
little  corral  on  the  level,  and  shut  the  gates.  It's  over  my 
head  down  in  the  creek  bottom  now.  I  haven't  a  dry  stitch 
on  me.  I  guess  I'll  follow  Mahailey 's  advice  and  get  in  the 
tub,  if  you  can  wait  supper  for  me." 

"Put  your  clothes  outside  the  bathroom  door,  and  I'll  see 
to  drying  them  for  you." 

"Yes,  please.  I'll  need  them  tomorrow.  I  don't  want  to 
spoil  my  new  corduroys.  And,  Mother,  see  if  you  can  make 
Dan  change.  He's  too  wet  and  steamy  to  sit  at  the  table  with. 
Tell  him  if  anybody  has  to  go  out  after  supper,  I'll  go." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  hurried  down  stairs.  Dan,  she  knew,  would 
rather  sit  all  evening  in  wet  clothes  than  take  the  trouble 
to  put  on  dry  ones.  He  tried  to  sneak  past  her  to  his  own 
quarters  behind  the  wash-room,  and  looked  aggrieved  when  he 
heard  her  message. 

"I  ain't  got  no  other  outside  clothes,  except  my  Sunday 
ones,"  he  objected. 

"Well,  Claude  says  he'll  go  out  if  anybody  has  to.  I  guess 
you'll  have  to  change  for  once,  Dan,  or  go  to  bed  without 
your  supper."  She  laughed  quietly  at  his  dejected  expression 
as  he  slunk  away. 

"Mrs.  Wrheeler,"  Mahailey  whispered,  "can't  I  run  down  to 
the  cellar  an'  git  some  of  them  nice  strawberry  preserves? 


On  Lovely  Creek  95 

Mr.  Claude,  he  loves  'em  on  his  hot  biscuit.  He  don't  eat  the 
honey  no  more;  he's  got  tired  of  it." 

"Very  well.  I'll  make  the  coffee  good  and  strong;  that 
will  please  him  more  than  anything." 

Claude  came  down  feeling  clean  and  warm  and  hungry.  As 
he  opened  the  stair  door  he  sniffed  the  coffee  and  frying  ham, 
and  when  Mahailey  bent  over  the  oven  the  warm  smell  of 
browning  biscuit  rushed  out  with  the  heat.  These  combined 
odours  somewhat  dispersed  Dan's  gloom  when  he  came  back 
in  squeaky  Sunday  shoes  and  a  bunglesome  cut-away  coat. 
The  latter  was  not  required  of  him,  but  he  wore  it  for  revenge. 

During  supper  Mrs.  Wheeler  told  them  once  again  how,  long 
ago  when  she  was  first  married,  there  were  no  roads  or  fences 
west  of  Frankfort.  One  winter  night  she  sat  on  the  roof  of 
their  first  dugout  nearly  all  night,  holding  up  a  lantern  tied  to 
a  pole  to  guide  Mr.  Wheeler  home  through  a  snowstorm  like 
this. 

Mahailey,  moving  about  the  stove,  watched  over  the  group 
at  the  table.  She  liked  to  see  the  men  fill  themselves  with 
food — though  she  did  not  count  Dan  a  man,  by  any  means, — 
and  she  looked  out  to  see  that  Mrs.  Wheeler  did  not  forget  to 
eat  altogether,  as  she  was  apt  to  do  when  she  fell  to  remember- 
ing things  that  had  happened  long  ago.  Mahailey  was  in  a 
happy  frame  of  mind  because  her  weather  predictions  had  come 
true;  only  yesterday  she  had  told  Mrs.  Wheeler  there  would  be 
snow,  because  she  had  seen  snowbirds.  She  regarded  supper 
as  more  than  usually  important  when  Claude  put  on  his  "vel- 
vet close,"  as  she  called  his  brown  corduroys. 

After  supper  Claude  lay  on  the  couch  in  the  sitting  room, 
while  his  mother  read  aloud  to  him  from  "Bleak  House," — one 
of  the  few  novels  she  loved.  Poor  Jo  was  drawing  toward 


96  One  of  Ours 


his  end  when  Claude  suddenly  sat  up.  "Mother,  I  believe  I'm 
too  sleepy.  I'll  have  to  turn  in.  Do  you  suppose  it's  still 
snowing?" 

He  rose  and  went  to  look  out,  but  the  west  windows  were 
so  plastered  with  snow  that  they  were  opaque.  Even  from 
the  one  on  the  south  he  could  see  nothing  for  a  moment; 
then  Mahailey  must  have  carried  her  lamp  to  the  kitchen 
window  beneath,  for  all  at  once  a  broad  yellow  beam  shone 
out  into  the  choked  air,  and  down  it  millions  of  snowflakes 
hurried  like  armies,  an  unceasing  progression,  moving  as  close 
as  they  could  without  forming  a  solid  mass.  Claude  struck 
the  frozen  window-frame  with  his  fist,  lifted  the  lower  sash, 
and  thrusting  out  his  head  tried  to  look  abroad  into  the  en- 
gulfed night.  There  was  a  solemnity  about  a  storm  of  such 
magnitude ;  it  gave  one  a  feeling  of  infinity.  The  myriads 
of  white  particles  that  crossed  the  rays  of  lamplight  seemed  to 
have  a  quiet  purpose,  to  be  hurrying  toward  a  definite  end. 
A  faint  purity,  like  a  fragrance  almost  too  fine  for  human 
senses,  exhaled  from  them  as  they  clustered  about  his  head 
and  shoulders.  His  mother,  looking  under  his  lifted  arm, 
strained  her  eyes  to  see  out  into  that  swarming  movement, 
and  murmured  softly  in  her  quavering  voice : 

"Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker, 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river; 
Ever  deeper,  deeper,  deeper, 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape." 


XVIII 

CLAUDE'S  bedroom  faced  the  east.     The  next  morn- 
ing, when  he  looked  out  of  his  windows,  only  the 
tops  of   the   cedars   in  the   front  yard   were  visible. 
Hurriedly  putting  on  his  clothes  he  ran  to  the  west  window 
at  the  end  of  the  hall;  Lovely  Creek,  and  the  deep  ravine  in 
which  it  flowed,  had  disappeared  as  if  they  had  never  been. 
The  rough  pasture  was  like  a  smooth  field,  except  for  humps 
and  mounds  like  haycocks,  where  the  snow  had  drifted  over 
a  post  or  a  bush. 

At  the  kitchen  stairs  Mahailey  met  him  in  gleeful  excite- 
ment. "Lord  'a'  mercy,  Mr.  Claude,  I  can't  git  the  storm  door 
open.  We're  snowed  in  fas'."  She  looked  like  a  tramp 
woman,  in  a  jacket  patched  with  many  colours,  her  head  tied 
up  in  an  old  black  "fascinator,"  with  ravelled  yarn  hanging 
down  over  her  face  like  wild  locks  of  hair.  She  kept  this 
costume  for  calamitous  occasions;  appeared  in  it  when  the 
water-pipes  were  frozen  and  burst,  or  when  spring  storms 
flooded  the  coops  and  drowned  her  young  chickens. 

The  storm  door  opened  outward.  Claude  put  his  shoulder 
to  it  and  pushed  it  a  little  way.  Then,  with  Mahailey's  fire- 
shovel  he  dislodged  enough  snow  to  enable  him  to  force  back 
the  door.  Dan  came  tramping  in  his  stocking-feet  across  the 
kitchen  to  his  boots,  which  were  still  drying  behind  the  stove. 
"She's  sure  a  bad  one,  Claude,"  He  remarked,  blinking. 

"Yes.  I  guess  we  won't  try  to  go  out  till  after  breakfast. 
We'll  have  to  dig  our  way  to  the  barn,  and  I  never  thought  to 
bring  the  shovels  up  last  night." 

97 


98  One  of  Ours 


"Th*  ole  snow  shovels  is  in  the  cellar.     I'll  git  'em." 

"Not  now,  Mahailey.  Give  us  our  breakfast  before  you  do 
anything  else." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  came  down,  pinning  on  her  little  shawl,  her 
shoulders  more  bent  than  usual.  "Claude,"  she  said  fear- 
fully, "the  cedars  in  the  front  yard  are  all  but  covered.  Do 
you  suppose  our  cattle  could  be  buried  ?" 

He  laughed.  "No,  Mother.  The  cattle  have  been  moving 
around  all  night,  I  expect." 

When  the  two  men  started  out  with  the  wooden  snow  shovels, 
Mrs.  Wheeler  and  Mahailey  stood  in  the  doorway,  watching 
them.  For  a  short  distance  from  the  house  the  path  they  dug 
was  like  a  tunnel,  and  the  white  walls  on  either  side  were 
higher  than  their  heads.  On  the  breast  of  the  hill  the  snow 
was  not  so  deep,  and  they  made  better  headway.  They  had 
to  fight  through  a  second  heavy  drift  before  they  reached  the 
barn,  where  they  went  in  and  warmed  themselves  among  the 
horses  and  cows.  Dan  was  for  getting  next  a  warm  cow  and 
beginning  to  milk. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Claude.  "I  want  to  have  a  look  at  the 
hogs  before  we  do  anything  here." 

The  hog-house  was  built  down  in  a  draw  behind  the  barn. 
When  Claude  reached  the  edge  of  the  gully,  blown  almost 
bare,  he  could  look  about  him.  The  draw  was  full  of  snow, 
smooth  .  .  .  except  in  the  middle,  where  there  was  a  rumpled 
depression,  resembling  a  great  heap  of  tumbled  bed-linen. 

Dan  gasped.  "God  a'  mighty,  Claude,  the  roof's  fell  in! 
Them  hogs'll  be  smothered." 

"They  will  if  we  don't  get  at  them  pretty  quick.  Run  to 
the  house  and  tell  Mother  Mahailey  will  have  to  milk  this 
morning,  and  get  back  here  as  fast  as  you  can." 


On  Lovely   Creek  99 

The  roof  was  a  flat  thatch,  and  the  weight  of  the  snow  had 
been  too  much  for  it.  Claude  wondered  if  he  should  have 
put  on  a  new  thatch  that  fall;  but  the  old  one  wasn't  leaky, 
and  had  seemed  strong  enough. 

When  Dan  got  back  they  took  turns,  one  going  ahead  and 
throwing  out  as  much  snow  as  he  could,  the  other  handling  the 
snow  that  fell  back.  After  an  hour  or  so  of  this  work,  Dan 
leaned  on  his  shovel. 

"We'll  never  do  it,  Claude.  Two  men  couldn't  throw  all  that 
snow  out  in  a  week.  I'm  about  all  in." 

"Well,  you  can  go  back  to  the  house  and  sit  by  the  fire," 
Claude  called  fiercely.  He  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  was 
working  in  his  shirt  and  sweater.  The  sweat  was  rolling 
from  his  face,  his  back  and  arms  ached,  and  his  hands,  which 
he  couldn't  keep  dry,  were  blistered.  There  were  thirty- 
seven  hogs  in  the  hog-house. 

Dan  sat  down  in  the  hole.  "Maybe  if  I  could  git  a  drink 
of  water,  I  could  hold  on  a- ways,"  he  said  dejectedly. 

It  was  past  noon  when  they  got  into  the  shed;  a  cloud  of 
steam  rose,  and  they  heard  grunts.  They  found  the  pigs  all 
lying  in  a  heap  at  one  end,  and  pulled  the  top  ones  off  alive 
and  squealing.  Twelve  hogs,  at  the  bottom  of  the  pile,  had 
been  suffocated.  They  lay  there  wet  and  black  in  the  snow, 
their  bodies  warm  and  smoking,  but  they  were  dead;  there 
was  no  mistaking  that. 

Mrs.  Wheeler,  in  her  husband's  rubber  boots  and  an  old 
overcoat,  came  down  with  Mahailey  to  view  the  scene  of 
disaster. 

"You  ought  to  git  right  at  them  hawgs  an'  butcher  'em  to- 
day," Mahailey  called  down  to  the  men.  She  was  standing  on 
the  edge  of  the  draw,  in  her  patched  jacket  and  ravelled  hood. 


loo  One  of  Ours 


Claude,  down  in  the  hole,  brushed  the  sleeve  of  his  sweater 
across  his  streaming  face.  "Butcher  them?"  he  cried  indig- 
nantly. "I  wouldn't  butcher  them  if  I  never  saw  meat  again." 

"You  ain't  a-goin'  to  let  all  that  good  hawg-meat  go  to 
wase,  air  you,  Mr.  Claude?"  Mahailey  pleaded.  "They  didn't 
have  no  sickness  nor  nuthin'.  Only  you'll  have  to  git  right 
at  'em,  or  the  meat  won't  be  healthy." 

"It  wouldn't  be  healthy  for  me,  anyhow.  I  don't  know  what 
I  will  do  with  them,  but  I'm  mighty  sure  I  won't  butcher  them." 

"Don't  bother  him,  Mahailey,"  Mrs.  Wheeler  cautioned  her. 
"He's  tired,  and  he  has  to  fix  some  place  for  the  live  hogs." 

"I  know  he  is,  mam,  but  I  could  easy  cut  up  one  of  them 
hawgs  myself.  I  butchered  my  own  little  pig  onct,  in  Vir- 
ginia. I  could  save  the  hams,  anyways,  and  the  spare-ribs. 
We  ain't  had  no  spare-ribs  for  ever  so  long." 

What  with  the  ache  in  his  back  and  his  chagrin  at  losing 
the  pigs,  Claude  was  feeling  desperate.  "Mother,"  he  shouted, 
"if  you  don't  take  Mahailey  into  the  house,  I'll  go  crazy !" 

That  evening  Mrs.  Wheeler  asked  him  how  much  the  twelve 
hogs  would  have  been  worth  in  money.  He  looked  a  little 
startled. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  exactly ;  three  hundred  dollars,  anyway." 

"Would  it  really  be  as  much  as  that?  I  don't  see  how  we 
could  have  prevented  it,  do  you?"  Her  face  looked  troubled. 

Claude  went  to  bed  immediately  after  supper,  but  he  had 
no  sooner  stretched  his  aching  body  between  the  sheets  than 
he  began  to  feel  wakeful.  He  was  humiliated  at  losing  the 
pigs,  because  they  had  been  left  in  his  charge ;  but  for  the  loss 
in  money,  about  which  even  his  mother  was  grieved,  he  didn't 
seem  to  care.  He  wondered  whether  all  that  winter  he  hadn't 


On  Lovely  Creek  101 

been  working  himself  up  into  a  childish  contempt  for  money- 
values. 

When  Ralph  was  home  at  Christmas  time,  he  wore  on  his 
little  finger  a  heavy  gold  ring,  with  a  diamond  as  big  as  a  pea, 
surrounded  by  showy  grooves  in  the  metal.  He  admitted  to 
Claude  that  he  had  won  it  in  a  poker  game.  Ralph's  hands 
were  never  free  from  automobile  grease  —  they  were  the  red, 
stumpy  kind  that  couldn't  be  kept  clean.  Claude  remembered 
him  milking  in  the  barn  by  lantern  light,  his  jewel  throwing 
off  jabbing  sparkles  of  colour,  and  his  fingers  looking  very 
much  like  the  teats  of  the  cow.  That  picture  rose  before  him 
now,  as  a  symbol  of  what  successful  farming  led  to. 

The  farmer  raised  and  took  to  market  things  with  an  in- 
trinsic value ;  wheat  and  corn  as  good  as  could  be  grown  any- 
where in  the  world,  hogs  and  cattle  that  were  the  best  of  their 
kind.  In  return  he  got  manufactured  articles  of  poor  quality ; 
showy  furniture  that  went  to  pieces,  carpets  and  draperies 
that  faded,  clothes  that  made  a  handsome  man  look  like  a 
clown.  Most  of  his  money  was  paid  out  for  machinery, —  and 
that,  too,  went  to  pieces.  A  steam  thrasher  didn't  last  long; 
a  horse  outlived  three  automobiles. 

Claude  felt  sure  that  when  he  was  a  little  boy  and  all  the 
neighbours  were  poor,  they  and  their  houses  and  farms  had 
more  individuality.  The  farmers  took  time  then  to  plant  fine 
cottonwood  groves  on  their  places,  and  to  set  osage  orange 
hedges  along  the  borders  of  their  fields.  Now  these  trees  were 
all  being  cut  down  and  grubbed  up.  Just  why,  nobody  knew ; 
they  impoverished  the  land  .  .  .  they  made  the  snow  drift  .  .  . 
nobody  had  them  any  more.  With  prosperity  came  a  kind  of 
callousness;  everybody  wanted  to  destroy  the  old  things  they 


IO2  One  of  Ours 


used  to  take  pride  in.  The  orchards,  which  had  been  nursed 
and  tended  so  carefully  twenty  years  ago,  were  now  left  to 
die  of  neglect.  It  was  less  trouble  to  run  into  town  in  an 
automobile  and  buy  fruit  than  it  was  to  raise  it. 

The  people  themselves  had  changed.  He  could  remember 
when  all  the  farmers  in  this  community  were  friendly  toward 
each  other;  now  they  were  continually  having  lawsuits.  Their 
sons  were  either  stingy  and  grasping,  or  extravagant  and  lazy, 
and  they  were  always  stirring  up  trouble.  Evidently,  it  took 
more  intelligence  to  spend  money  than  to  make  it. 

When  he  pondered  upon  this  conclusion,  Claude  thought  of 
the  Erlichs.  Julius  could  go  abroad  and  study  for  his  doctor's 
degree,  and  live  on  less  than  Ralph  wasted  every  year.  Ralph 
would  never  have  a  profession  or  a  trade,  would  never  do  or 
make  anything  the  world  needed. 

Nor  did  Claude  find  his  own  outlook  much  better.  He  was 
twenty-one  years  old,  and  he  had  no  skill,  no  training, —  no 
ability  that  would  ever  take  him  among  the  kind  of  people  he 
admired.  He  was  a  clumsy,  awkward  farmer  boy,  and  even 
Mrs.  Erlich  seemed  to  think  the  farm  the  best  place  for  him. 
Probably  it  was;  but  all  the  same  he  didn't  find  this  kind  of 
life  worth  the  trouble  of  getting  up  every  morning.  He  could 
not  see  the  use  of  working  for  money,  when  money  brought 
nothing  one  wanted.  Mrs.  Erlich  said  it  brought  security. 
Sometimes  he  thought  this  security  was  what  was  the  matter 
with  everybody ;  that  only  perfect  safety  was  required  to  kill  all 
the  best  qualities  in  people  and  develop  the  mean  ones. 

Ernest,  too,  said  "it's  the  best  life  in  the  world,  Claude." 
But  if  you  went  to  bed  defeated  every  night,  and  dreaded  to 
wake  in  the  morning,  then  clearly  it  was  too  good  a  life  for 
you.  To  be  assured,  at  his  age,  of  three  meals  a  day  and 


On  Lovely  Creek  103 

plenty  of  sleep,  was  like  being  assured  of  a  decent  burial. 
Safety,  security;  if  you  followed  that  reasoning  out,  then  the 
unborn,  those  who  would  never  be  born,  were  the  safest  of 
all ;  nothing  could  happen  to  them. 

Claude  knew,  and  everybody  else  knew,  seemingly,  that 
there  was  something  wrong  with  him.  He  had  been  unable 
to  conceal  his  discontent.  Mr.  Wheeler  was  afraid  he  was 
one  of  those  visionary  fellows  who  make  unnecessary  diffi- 
culties for  themselves  and  other  people.  Mrs.  Wheeler  thought 
the  trouble  with  her  son  was  that  he  had  not  yet  found  his 
Saviour.  Bayliss  was  convinced  that  his  brother  was  a  moral 
rebel,  that  behind  his  reticence  and  his  guarded  manner  he 
concealed  the  most  dangerous  opinions.  The  neighbours  liked 
Claude,  but  they  laughed  at  him,  and  said  it  was  a  good  thing 
his  father  was  well  fixed.  Claude  was  aware  that  his  energy, 
instead  of  accomplishing  something,  was  spent  in  resisting  un- 
alterable conditions,  and  in  unavailing  efforts  to  subdue  his 
own  nature.  When  he  thought  he  had  at  last  got  himself  in 
hand,  a  moment  would  undo  the  work  of  days ;  in  a  flash  he 
•would  be  transformed  from  a  wooden  post  into  a  living  boy. 
He  would  spring  to  his  feet,  turn  over  quickly  in  bed,  or  stop 
short  in  his  walk,  because  the  old  belief  flashed  up  in  him  with 
an  intense  kind  of  hope,  an  intense  kind  of  pain, —  the  convic- 
tion that  there  was  something  splendid  about  life,  if  he  could 
but  find  it ! 


IX 

THE  weather,  after  the  big  storm,  behaved  capriciously. 
There  was  a  partial  thaw  which  threatened  to  flood 
everything, —  then  a  hard  freeze.  The  whole  country 
glittered  with  an  icy  crust,  and  people  went  about  on  a  plat- 
form of  frozen  snow,  quite  above  the  level  of  ordinary  life. 
Claude  got  out  Mr.  Wheeler's  old  double  sleigh  from  the  mass 
of  heterogenous  objects  that  had  for  years  lain  on  top  of  it, 
and  brought  the  rusty  sleighbells  up  to  the  house  for  Mahailey 
to  scour  with  brick  dust.  Now  that  they  had  automo'biles, 
most  of  the  farmers  had  let  their  old  sleighs  go  to  pieces.  But 
the  Wheelers  always  kept  everything. 

Claude  told  his  mother  he  meant  to  take  Enid  Royce  for 
a  sleigh-ride.  Enid  was  the  daughter  of  Jason  Royce,  the 
grain  merchant,  one  of  the  early  settlers,  who  for  many  years 
had  run  the  only  grist  mill  in  Frankfort  county.  She  and 
Claude  were  old  playmates ;  he  made  a  formal  call  at  the  mill- 
house,  as  it  was  called,  every  summer  during  his  vacation,  and 
often  dropped  in  to  see  Mr.  Royce  at  his  town  office. 

Immediately  after  supper,  Claude  put  the  two  wiry  little 
blacks,  Pompey  and  Satan,  to  the  sleigh.  The  moon  had  been 
up  since  long  before  the  sun  went  down,  had  been  hanging 
pale  in  the  sky  most  of  the  afternoon,  and  now  it  flooded  the 
snow-terraced  land  with  silver.  It  was  one  of  those  sparkling 
winter  nights  when  a  boy  feels  that  though  the  world  is  very 
big,  he  himself  is  bigger;  that  under  the  whole  crystalline  blue 
sky  there  is  no  one  quite  so  warm  and  sentient  as  himself,  and 

104 


On  Lovely   Creek  105 

that  all  this  magnificence  is  for  him.  The  sleighbells  rang  out 
with  a  kind  of  musical  lightheartedness,  as  if  they  were  glad 
to  sing  again,  after  the  many  winters  they  had  hung  rusty  and 
dust-choked  in  the  barn. 

The  mill  road,  that  led  off  the  highway  and  down  to  the 
river,  had  pleasant  associations  for  Claude.  When  he  was  a 
youngster,  every  time  his  father  'went  to  mill,  he  begged  to  go 
along.  He  liked  the  mill  and  the  miller  and  the  miller's  little 
girl.  He  had  never  liked  the  miller's  house,  however,  and  he 
was  afraid  of  Enid's  mother.  Even  now,  as  he  tied  his  horses 
to  the  long  hitch-bar  down  by  the  engine  room,  he  resolved 
that  he  would  not  be  persuaded  to  enter  that  formal  parlour, 
full  of  new-looking,  expensive  furniture,  where  his  energy 
always  deserted  him  and  he  could  never  think  of  anything  to 
talk  about.  If  he  moved,  his  shoes  squeaked  in  the  silence,  and 
Mrs.  Royce  sat  and  blinked  her  sharp  little  eyes  at  him,  and  the 
longer  he  stayed,  the  harder  it  was  to  go. 

Enid  herself  came  to  the  door. 

"Why,  it's  Claude  !"  she  exclaimed.     "Won't  you  come  in  ?" 

"No,  I  want  you  to  go  riding.  I've  got  the  old  sleigh  out. 
Come  on,  it's  a  fine  night!" 

"I  thought  I  heard  bells.  Won't  you  come  in  and  see 
Mother  while  I  get  my  things  on  ?" 

Claude  said  he  must  stay  with  his  horses,  and  ran  back  to 
the  hitch-bar.  Enid  didn't  keep  him  waiting  long;  she  wasn't 
that  kind.  She  came  swiftly  down  the  path  and  through  the 
front  gate  in  the  Maine  seal  motor-coat  she  wore  when  she 
drove  her  electric  coupe  in  cold  weather. 

"Now,  which  way?"  Claude  asked  as  the  horses  sprang  for- 
ward and  the  bells  began  to  jingle. 

"Almost  any  way.     What  a  beautiful  night!     And  I  love 


io6  One  of  Ours 


your  bells,  Claude.  I  haven't  heard  sleighbells  since  you  used 
to  bring  me  and  Gladys  home  from  school  in  stormy  weather. 
Why  don't  we  stop  for  her  tonight?  She  has  furs  now,  you 
know!"  Here  Enid  laughed.  "All  the  old  ladies  are  so  ter- 
ribly puzzled  about  them;  they  can't  find  out  whether  your 
brother  really  gave  them  to  her  for  Christmas  or  not.  If 
they  were  sure  she  bought  them  for  herself,  I  believe  they'd 
hold  a  public  meeting." 

Claude  cracked  his  whip  over  his  eager  little  blacks. 
"Doesn't  it  make  you  tired,  the  way  they  are  always  nagging 
at  Gladys?" 

"It  would,  if  she  minded.  But  she's  just  as  serene!  They 
must  have  something  to  fuss  about,  and  of  course  poor  Mrs. 
Farmer's  back  taxes  are  piling  up.  I  certainly  suspect  Bay- 
liss  of  the  furs." 

Claude  did  not  feel  as  eager  to  stop  for  Gladys  as  he  had 
been  a  few  moments  before.  They  were  approaching  the  town 
now,  and  lighted  windows  shone  softly  across  the  blue  white- 
ness of  the  snow.  Even  in  progressive  Frankfort,  the  street 
lights  were  turned  off  on  a  night  so  glorious  as  this.  Mrs. 
Farmer  and  her  daughter  had  a  little  white  cottage  down  in  the 
south  part  of  the  town,  where  only  people  of  modest  means 
lived.  "We  must  stop  to  see  Gladys'  mother,  if  only  for  a 
minute,"  Enid  said  as  they  drew  up  before  the  fence.  "She 
is  so  fond  of  company."  He  tied  his  team  to  a  tree,  and  they 
went  up  to  the  narrow,  sloping  porch,  hung  with  vines  that 
were  full  of  frozen  snow. 

Mrs.  Farmer  met  them ;  a  large,  rosy  woman  of  fifty,  with  a 
pleasant  Kentucky  voice.  She  took  Enid's  arm  affectionately, 
and  Claude  followed  them  into  the  long,  low  sitting-room, 
which  had  an  uneven  floor  and  a  lamp  at  either  end,  and  was 


On  Lovely  Creek  107 

scantily  furnished  in  rickety  mahogany.  There,  close  beside 
the  hard-coal  burner,  sat  Bayliss  Wheeler.  He  did  not  rise 
when  they  entered,  but  said,  "Hello,  folks,"  in  a  rather  sheepish 
voice.  On  a  little  table,  beside  Mrs.  Farmer's  workbasket, 
was  the  box  of  candy  he  had  lately  taken  out  of  his  overcoat 
pocket,  still  tied  up  with  its  gold  cord.  A  tall  lamp  stood 
beside  the  piano,  where  Gladys  had  evidently  been  practising. 
Claude  wondered  whether  Bayliss  actually  pretended  to  an  in- 
terest in  music!  At  this  moment  Gladys  was  in  the  kitchen, 
Mrs.  Farmer  explained,  looking  for  her  mother's  glasses, — 
mislaid  when  she  was  copying  a  recipe  for  a  cheese  souffle. 

"Are  you  still  getting  new  recipes,  Mrs.  Farmer?"  Enid 
asked  her.  "I  thought  you  could  make  every  dish  in  the  world 
already." 

"Oh,  not  quite !"  Mrs.  Farmer  laughed  modestly  and  showed 
that  she  liked  compliments.  "Do  sit  down,  Claude,"  she  be- 
sought of  the  stiff  image  by  the  door.  "Daughter  will  be  here 
directly." 

At  that  moment  Gladys  Farmer  appeared. 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  you  had  company,  Mother,"  she  said, 
coming  in  to  greet  them. 

This  meant,  Claude  supposed,  that  Bayliss  was  not  com- 
pany. He  scarcely  glanced  at  Gladys  as  he  took  the  hand  she 
held  out  to  him. 

One  of  Gladys'  grandfathers  had  come  from  Antwerp,  and 
she  had  the  settled  composure,  the  full  red  lips,  brown  eyes, 
and  dimpled  white  hands  which  occur  so  often  in  Flemish  por- 
traits of  young  women.  Some  people  thought  her  a  trifle 
heavy,  too  mature  and  positive  to  be  called  pretty,  even  though 
they  admired  her  rich,  tulip-like  complexion.  Gladys  never 
seemed  aware  that  her  looks  and  her  poverty  and  her  extrava- 


io8  One  of  Ours 


gance  were  the  subject  of  perpetual  argument,  but  went  to 
and  from  school  every  day  with  the  air  of  one  whose  position 
is  assured.  Her  musicianship  gave  her  a  kind  of  authority 
in  Frankfort. 

Enid  explained  the  purpose  of  their  call.  "Claude  has  got 
out  his  old  sleigh,  and  we've  come  to  take  you  for  a  ride. 
Perhaps  Bayliss  will  go,  too  ?" 

Bayliss  said  he  guessed  he  would,  though  Claude  knew  there 
was  nothing  he  hated  so  much  as  being  out  in  the  cold.  Gladys 
ran  upstairs  to  put  on  a  warm  dress,  and  Enid  accompanied  her, 
leaving  Mrs.  Farmer  to  make  agreeable  conversation  between 
her  two  incompatible  guests. 

"Bayliss  was  just  telling  us  how  you  lost  your  hogs  in  the 
storm,  Claude.  What  a  pity !"  she  said  sympathetically. 

Yes,  Claude  thought,  Bayliss  wouldn't  be  at  all  reticent  about 
that  incident ! 

"I  suppose  there  was  really  no  way  to  save  them,"  Mrs. 
Farmer  went  on  in  her  polite  way;  her  voice  was  low  and 
round,  like  her  daughter's,  different  from  the  high,  tight 
Western  voice.  "So  I  hope  you  don't  let  yourself  worry  about 
it." 

"No,  I  don't  worry  about  anything  as  dead  as  those  hogs 
were.  What's  the  use  ?"  Claude  asked  boldly. 

"That's  right,"  murmured  Mrs.  Farmer,  rocking  a  little  in 
her  chair.  "Such  things  will  happen  sometimes,  and  we  ought 
not  to  take  them  too  hard.  It  isn't  as  if  a  person  had  been 
hurt,  is  it?" 

Claude  shook  himself  and  tried  to  respond  to  her  cordiality, 
and  to  the  shabby  comfort  of  her  long  parlour,  so  evidently 
doing  its  best  to  be  attractive  to  her  friends.  There  weren't 
four  steady  legs  on  any  of  the  stuffed  chairs  or  little  folding 


On  Lovely  Creek  109 

tables  she  had  brought  up  from  the  South,  and  the  heavy 
gold  moulding  was  half  broken  away  from  the  oil  portrait  of 
her  father,  the  Judge.  But  she  carried  her  poverty  lightly,  as 
Southern  people  did  after  the  Civil  War,  and  she  didn't  fret 
half  so  much  about  her  back  taxes  as  her  neighbours  did. 
Claude  tried  to  talk  agreeably  to  her,  but  he  was  distracted 
by  the  sound  of  stifled  laughter  upstairs.  Probably  Gladys  and 
Enid  were  joking  about  Bayliss'  being  there.  How  shameless 
girls  were,  anyhow ! 

People  came  to  their  front  windows  to  look  out  as  the  sleigh 
dashed  jingling  up  and  down  the  village  streets.  When  they 
left  town,  Bayliss  suggested  that  they  drive  out  past  the  Trevor 
place.  The  girls  began  to  talk  about  the  two  young  New 
Englanders,  Trevor  and  Brewster,  who  had  lived  there  when 
Frankfort  was  still  a  tough  little  frontier  settlement.  Every 
one  was  talking  about  them  now,  for  a  few  days  ago  word 
had  come  that  one  of  the  partners,  Amos  Brewster,  had 
dropped  dead  in  his  law  office  in  Hartford.  It  was  thirty  years 
since  he  and  his  friend,  Bruce  Trevor,  had  tried  to  be  great 
cattle  men  in  Frankfort  county,  and  had  built  the  house  on  the 
round  hill  east  of  the  town,  where  they  wasted  a  great  deal  of 
money  very  joyously.  Claude's  father  always  declared  that 
the  amount  they  squandered  in  carousing  was  negligible  com- 
pared to  their  losses  in  commendable  industrial  endeavour. 
The  country,  Mr.  Wheeler  said,  had  never  been  the  same  since 
those  boys  left  it.  He  delighted  to  tell  about  the  time  when 
Trevor  and  Brewster  went  into  sheep.  They  imported  a  breed- 
ing ram  from  Scotland  at  a  great  expense,  and  when  he  ar- 
rived were  so  impatient  to  get  the  good  of  him  that  they  turned 
him  in  with  the  ewes  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  his  crate.  Con- 
sequently all  the  lambs  were  born  at  the  wrong  season;  came 


HO  One  of  Ours 


at  the  beginning  of  March,  in  a  blinding  blizzard,  and  the 
mothers  died  from  exposure.  The  gallant  Trevor  took  horse 
and  spurred  all  over  the  county,  from  one  little  settlement  to 
another,  buying  up  nursing  bottles  and  nipples  to  feed  the 
orphan  lambs. 

The  rich  bottom  land  about  the  Trevor  place  had  been  rented 
out  to  a  truck  gardener  for  years  now ;  the  comfortable  house 
with  its  billiard-room  annex  —  a  wonder  for  that  part  of  the 
country  in  its  day  —  remained  closed,  its  windows  boarded  up. 
It  sat  on  the  top  of  a  round  knoll,  a  fine  cottonwood  grove  be- 
hind it.  Tonight,  as  Claude  drove  toward  it,  the  hill  with  its 
tall  straight  trees  looked  like  a  big  fur  cap  put  down  on  the 
snow. 

"Why  hasn't  some  one  bought  that  house  long  ago  and  fixed 
it  up?"  Enid  remarked.  "There  is  no  building  site  around 
here  to  compare  with  it.  It  looks  like  the  place  where  the 
leading  citizen  of  the  town  ought  to  live." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,  Enid,"  said  Bayliss  in  a  guarded  voice. 
"I've  always  had  a  sneaking  fancy  for  the  place  myself.  Those 
fellows  back  there  never  wanted  to  sell  it.  But  now  the 
estate's  got  to  be  settled  up.  I  bought  it  yesterday.  The  deed 
is  on  its  way  to  Hartford  for  signature." 

Enid  turned  round  in  her  seat.  "Why  Bayliss,  are  you  in 
earnest?  Think  of  just  buying  the  Trevor  place  off-hand,  as 
if  it  were  any  ordinary  piece  of  real  estate!  Will  you  make 
over  the  house,  and  live  there  some  day?" 

"I  don't  know  about  living  there.  It's  too  far  to  walk  to  my 
business,  and  the  road  across  this  bottom  gets  pretty  muddy 
for  a  car  in  the  spring." 

"But  it's  not  far,  less  than  a  mile.  If  I  once  owned  that 
spot,  I'd  surely  never  let  anybody  else  live  there.  Even  Carrie 


On  Lovely  Creek  in 

remembers  it.  She  often  asks  in  her  letters  whether  any  one 
has  bought  the  Trevor  place  yet." 

Carrie  Royce,  Enid's  older  sister,  was  a  missionary  in 
China. 

"Well,"  Bayliss  admitted,  "I  didn't  buy  it  for  an  investment, 
exactly.  I  paid  all  it  was  worth." 

Enid  turned  to  Gladys,  who  was  apparently  not  listening. 
"You'd  be  the  one  who  could  plan  a  mansion  for  Trevor  Hill, 
Gladys.  You  always  have  such  original  ideas  about  houses." 

"Yes,  people  who  have  no  houses  of  their  own  often  seem 
to  have  ideas  about  building,"  said  Gladys  quietly.  "But  I 
like  the  Trevor  place  as  it  is.  I  hate  to  think  that  one  of 
them  is  dead.  People  say  they  did  have  such  good  times  up 
there." 

Bayliss  grunted.  "Call  it  good  times  if  you  like.  The  kids 
were  still  grubbing  whiskey  bottles  out  of  the  cellar  when  I 
first  came  to  town.  Of  course,  if  I  decide  to  live  there,  I'll 
pull  down  that  old  trap  and  put  up  something  modern."  He 
often  took  this  gruff  tone  with  Gladys  in  public. 

Enid  tried  to  draw  the  driver  into  the  conversation.  "There 
seems  to  be  a  difference  of  opinion  here,  Claude." 

"Oh,"  said  Gladys  carelessly,  "it's  Bayliss'  property,  or  soon 
will  be.  He  will  build  what  he  likes.  I've  always  known 
somebody  would  get  that  place  away  from  me,  so  I'm  pre- 
pared." 

"Get  it  away  from  you?"  muttered  Bayliss,  amazed. 

"Yes.  As  long  as  no  one  bought  it  and  spoiled  it,  it  was 
mine  as  much  as  it  was  anybody's." 

"Claude,"  said  Enid  banteringly,  "now  both  your  brothers 
have  houses.  Where  are  you  going  to  have  yours?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I'll  ever  have  one.     I  think  I'll  run  about 


112  One  of  Ours 


the  world  a  little  before  I  draw  my  plans,"  he  replied  sarcas- 
tically. 

"Take  me  with  you,  Claude !"  said  Gladys  in  a  tone  of  sud- 
den weariness.  From  that  spiritless  murmur  Enid  suspected 
that  Bayliss  had  captured  Gladys'  hand  under  the  buffalo  robe. 

Grimness  had  settled  down  over  the  sleighing  party.  Even 
Enid,  who  was  not  highly  sensitive  to  unuttered  feelings,  saw 
that  there  was  an  uncomfortable  constraint.  A  sharp  wind 
had  come  up.  Bayliss  twice  suggested  turning  back,  but  his 
brother  answered,  "Pretty  soon,"  and  drove  on.  He  meant 
that  Bayliss  should  have  enough  of  it.  Not  until  Enid  whis- 
pered reproachfully,  "I  really  think  you  ought  to  turn;  we're 
all  getting  cold,"  did  he  realize  that  he  had  made  his  sleighing 
party  into  a  punishment!  There  was  certainly  nothing  to 
punish  Enid  for ;  she  had  done  her  best,  and  had  tried  to  make 
his  own  bad  manners  less  conspicuous.  He  muttered  a  blun- 
dering apology  to  her  when  he  lifted  her  from  the  sleigh  at 
the  mill  house.  On  his  long  drive  home  he  had  bitter  thoughts 
for  company. 

He  was  so  angry  with  Gladys  that  he  hadn't  been  able  to 
bid  her  good-night.  Everything  she  said  on  the  ride  had  net- 
tled him.  If  she  meant  to  marry  Bayliss,  then  she  ought  to 
throw  off  this  affectation  of  freedom  and  independence.  If 
she  did  not  mean  to,  why  did  she  accept  favours  from  him  and 
let  him  get  into  the  habit  of  walking  into  her  house  and  putting 
his  box  of  candy  on  the  table,  as  all  Frankfort  fellows  did 
when  they  were  courting?  Certainly  she  couldn't  make  her- 
self believe  that  she  liked  his  society ! 

When  they  were  classmates  at  the  Frankfort  High  School, 
Gladys  was  Claude's  aesthetic  proxy.  It  wasn't  the  proper 
thing  for  a  boy  to  be  too  clean,  or  too  careful  about  his  dress 


On  Lovely  Creek  113 

and  manners.  But  if  he  selected  a  girl  who  was  irreproachable 
in  these  respects,  got  his  Latin  and  did  his  laboratory  work  with 
her,  then  all  her  personal  attractions  redounded  to  his  credit. 
Gladys  had  seemed  to  appreciate  the  honour  Claude  did  her,  and 
it  was  not  all  on  her  own  account  that  she  wore  such  beautifully 
ironed  muslin  dresses  when  they  went  on  botanical  expedi- 
tions. 

Driving  home  after  that  miserable  sleigh-ride,  Claude  told 
himself  that  in  so  far  as  Gladys  was  concerned  he  could  make 
up  his  mind  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  "stung"  all  along. 
He  had  believed  in  her  fine  feelings ;  believed  implicitly.  Now 
he  knew  she  had  none  so  fine  that  she  couldn't  pocket  them 
when  there  was  enough  to  be  gained  by  it.  Even  while  he 
said  these  things  over  and  over,  his  old  conception  of  Gladys, 
down  at  the  bottom  of  his  mind,  remained  persistently  un- 
changed. But  that  only  made  his  state  of  feeling  the  more 
painful.  He  was  deeply  hurt, —  and  for  some  reason,  youth, 
when  it  is  hurt,  likes  to  feel  itself  betrayed. 


BOOK  TWO: 
ENID 


ONE  afternoon  that  spring-  Claude  was  sitting  on  the 
long  flight  of  granite  steps  that  leads  up  to  the  State 
House  in  Denver.  He  had  been  looking  at  the  col- 
lection of  Cliff  Dweller  remains  in  the  Capitol,  and  when  he 
came  out  into  the  sunlight  the  faint  smell  of  fresh-cut  grass 
struck  his  nostrils  and  persuaded  him  to  linger.  The  gardeners 
were  giving  the  grounds  their  first  light  mowing.  All  the 
lawns  on  the  hill  were  bright  with  daffodils  and  hyacinths. 
A  sweet,  warm  wind  blew  over  the  grass,  drying  the  water- 
drops.  There  had  been  showers  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  sky 
was  still  a  tender,  rainy  blue,  where  it  showed  through  the 
masses  of  swiftly  moving  clouds. 

Claude  had  been  away  from  home  for  nearly  a  month.  His 
father  had  sent  him  out  to  see  Ralph  and  the  new  ranch,  and 
from  there  he  went  on  to  Colorado  Springs  and  Trinidad. 
He  had  enjoyed  travelling,  but  now  that  he  was  back  in  Denver 
he  had  that  feeling  of  loneliness  which  often  overtakes  country 
boys  in  a  city;  the  feeling  of  being  unrelated  to  anything,  of 
not  mattering  to  anybody.  He  had  wandered  about  Colorado 
Springs  wishing  he  knew  some  of  the  people  who  were  going 
in  and  out  of  the  houses ;  wishing  that  he  could  talk  to  some  of 
those  pretty  girls  he  saw  driving  their  own  cars  about  the 
streets,  if  only  to  say  a  few  words.  One  morning  when  he  was 
walking  out  in  the  hills  a  girl  passed  him,  then  slowed  her  car 
to  ask  if  she  could  give  him  a  lift.  Claude  would  have  said  that 
she  was  just  the  sort  who  would  never  stop  to  pick  him  up,- — 

117 


Ii8  One  of  Ours 


yet  she  did,  and  she  talked  to  him  pleasantly  all  the  way  back  to 
town.  It  was  only  twenty  minutes  or  so,  but  it  was  worth 
everything  else  that  happened  on  his  trip.  When  she  asked 
him  where  she  should  put  him  down,  he  said  at  the  Antlers,  and 
blushed  so  furiously  that  she  must  have  known  at  once  he 
wasn't  staying  there. 

He  wondered  this  afternoon  how  many  discouraged  young 
men  had  sat  here  on  the  State  House  steps  and  watched  the 
sun  go  down  behind  the  mountains.  Every  one  was  always 
saying  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  be  young;  but  it  was  a  painful 
thing,  too.  He  didn't  believe  older  people  were  ever  so 
wretched.  Over  there,  in  the  golden  light,  the  mass  of 
mountains  was  splitting  up  into  four  distinct  ranges,  and  as 
the  sun  dropped  lower  the  peaks  emerged  in  perspective,  one 
behind  the  other.  It  was  a  lonely  splendour  that  only  made 
the  ache  in  his  breast  the  stronger.  What  was  the  matter  with 
him,  he  asked  himself  entreatingly.  He  must  answer  that 
question  before  he  went  home  again. 

The  statue  of  Kit  Carson  on  horseback,  down  in  the  Square, 
pointed  Westward;  but  there  was  no  West,  in  that  sense,  any 
more.  There  was  still  South  America;  perhaps  he  could  find 
something  below  the  Isthmus.  Here  the  sky  was  like  a  lid 
shut  down  over  the  world;  his  mother  could  see  saints  and 
martyrs  behind  it. 

Well,  in  time  he  would  get  over  all  this,  he  supposed.  Even 
his  father  had  been  restless  as  a  young  man,  and  had  run  away 
into  a  new  country.  It  was  a  storm  that  died  down  at  last, 
—  but  what  a  pity  not  to  do  anything  with  it!  A  waste  of 
power  —  for  it  was  a  kind  of  power ;  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
stood  frowning  against  the  ruddy  light,  so  deep  in  his  own 
struggling  thoughts  that  he  did  not  notice  a  man,  mounting 


Enid  119 

from  the  lower  terraces,  who  stopped  to  look  at  him. 
The  stranger  scrutinized  Claude  with  interest.  He  saw  a 
young  man  standing  bareheaded  on  the  long  flight  of  steps,  his 
fists  clenched  in  an  attitude  of  arrested  action, —  his  sandy  hair, 
his  tanned  face,  his  tense  figure  copper-coloured  in  the  oblique 
rays.  Claude  would  have  been  astonished  if  he  could  have 
known  how  he  seemed  to  this  stranger. 


II 

THE  next  morning  Claude  stepped  off  the  train  at 
Frankfort  and  had  his  breakfast  at  the  station  before 
the  town  was  awake.  His  family  were  not  expect- 
ing him,  so  he  thought  he  would  walk  home  and  stop  at  the 
mill  to  see  Enid  Royce.  After  all,  old  friends  were  best. 

He  left  town  by  the  low  road  that  wound  along  the  creek. 
The  willows  were  all  out  in  new  yellow  leaves,  and  the  sticky 
cotton-wood  buds  were  on  the  point  of  bursting.  Birds  were 
calling  everywhere,  and  now  and  then,  through  the  studded 
willow  wands,  flashed  the  dazzling  wing  of  a  cardinal. 

All  over  the  dusty,  tan-coloured  wheatfields  there  was  a 
tender  mist  of  green, —  millions  of  little  fingers  reaching  up 
and  waving  lightly  in  the  sun.  To  the  north  and  south  Claude 
could  see  the  corn-planters,  moving  in  straight  lines  over  the 
brown  acres  where  the  earth  had  been  harrowed  so  fine  that 
it  blew  off  in  clouds  of  dust  to  the  roadside.  When  a  gust 
of  wind  rose,  gay  little  twisters  came  across  the  open  fields, 
corkscrews  of  powdered  earth  that  whirled  through  the  air 
and  suddenly  fell  again.  It  seemed  as  if  there  were  a  lark 
on  every  fence  post,  singing  for  everything  that  was  dumb ; 
for  the  great  ploughed  lands,  and  the  heavy  horses  in  the 
rows,  and  the  men  guiding  the  horses. 

Along  the  roadsides,  from  under  the  dead  weeds  and  wisps 
of  dried  bluestem,  the  dandelions  thrust  up  their  clean,  bright 
faces.  If  Claude  happened  to  step  on  one,  the  acrid  smell 

120 


Enid  121 

made  him  think  of  Mahailey,  who  had  probably  been  out 
this  very  morning,  gouging  the  sod  with  her  broken  butcher- 
knife  and  stuffing  dandelion  greens  into  her  apron.  She  al- 
ways went  for  greens  with  an  air  of  secrecy,  very  early,  and 
sneaked  along  the  roadsides  stooping  close  to  the  ground,  as 
if  she  might  be  detected  and  driven  away,  or  as  if  the  dan- 
delions were  wild  things  and  had  to  be  caught  sleeping. 

Claude  was  thinking,  as  he  walked,  of  how  he  used 
to  like  to  come  to  mill  with  his  father.  The  whole  process 
of  milling  was  mysterious  to  him  then;  and  the  mill  house 
and  the  miller's  wife  were  mysterious;  even  Enid  was,  a 
little, —  until  he  got  her  down  in  the  bright  sun  among  the 
cat-tails.  They  used  to  play  in  the  bins  of  clean  wheat,  watch 
the  flour  coming  out  of  the  hopper  and  get  themselves  covered 
with  white  dust. 

Best  of  all  he  liked  going  in  where  the  water-wheel  hung 
dripping  in  its  dark  cave,  and  quivering  streaks  of  sunlight 
came  in  through  the  cracks  to  play  on  the  green  slime  and 
the  spotted  jewel- weed  growing  in  the  shale.  The  mill  was 
a  place  of  sharp  contrasts ;  bright  sun  and  deep  shade,  roaring 
sound  and  heavy,  dripping  silence.  He  remembered  how  as- 
tonished he  was  one  day,  when  he  found  Mr.  Royce  in  gloves 
and  goggles,  cleaning  the  millstones,  and  discovered  what  harm- 
less looking  things  they  were.  The  miller  picked  away  at 
them  with  a  sharp  hammer  until  the  sparks  flew,  and  Claude 
still  had  on  his  hand  a  blue  spot  where  a  chip  of  flint  went 
under  the  skin  when  he  got  too  near. 

Jason  Royce  must  have  kept  his  mill  going  out  of  sentiment, 
for  there  was  not  much  money  in  it  now.  But  milling  had 
been  his  first  business,  and  he  had  not  found  many  things  in 
life  to  be  sentimental  about.  Sometimes  one  still  came  upon 


122  One  of  Ours 


him  in  dusty  miller's  clothes,  giving  his  man  a  day  off.  He 
had  long  ago  ceased  to  depend  on  the  risings  and  fallings  of 
Lovely  Creek  for  his  power,  and  had  put  in  a  gasoline  engine. 
The  old  dam  now  lay  "like  a  holler  tooth,"  as  one  of  his  men 
said,  grown  up  with  weeds  and  willow-brush. 

Mr.  Royce's  family  affairs  had  never  gone  as  well  as  his 
business.  He  had  not  been  blessed  with  a  son,  and  out  of 
five  daughters  he  had  succeeded  in  bringing  up  only  two. 
People  thought  the  mill  house  damp  and  unwholesome.  Until 
he  built  a  tenant's  cottage  and  got  a  married  man  to  take 
charge  of  the  mill,  Mr.  Royce  was  never  able  to  keep  his  mil- 
lers long.  They  complained  of  the  gloom  of  the  house,  and 
said  they  could  not  get  enough  to  eat.  Mrs.  Royce  went  every 
summer  to  a  vegetarian  sanatorium  in  Michigan,  where  she 
learned  to  live  on  nuts  and  toasted  cereals.  She  gave  her 
family  nourishment,  to  be  sure,  but  there  was  never  during 
the  day  a  meal  that  a  man  could  look  forward  to  with  pleasure, 
or  sit  down  to  with  satisfaction.  Mr.  Royce  usually  dined 
at  the  hotel  in  town.  Nevertheless,  his  wife  was  distinguished 
for  certain  brilliant  culinary  accomplishments.  Her  bread  was 
faultless.  When  a  church  supper  was  toward,  she  was  always 
called  upon  for  her  wonderful  mayonnaise  dressing,  or  her 
angel- food  cake, —  sure  to  be  the  lightest  and  spongiest  in  any 
assemblage  of  cakes. 

A  deep  preoccupation  about  her  health  made  Mrs.  Royce 
like  a  woman  who  has  a  hidden  grief,  or  is  preyed  upon  by 
a  consuming  regret.  It  wrapped  her  in  a  kind  of  insensibility. 
She  lived  differently  from  other  people,  and  that  fact  made 
her  distrustful  and  reserved.  Only  when  she  was  at  the 
sanatorium,  under  the  care  of  her  idolized  doctors,  did  she 
feel  that  she  was  understood  and  surrounded  by  sympathy. 


Enid  123 

Her  distrust  had  communicated  itself  to  her  daughters  and 
in  countless  little  ways  had  coloured  their  feelings  about  life. 
They  grew  up  under  the  shadow  of  being  "different,"  and 
formed  no  close  friendships.  Gladys  Farmer  was  the  only 
Frankfort  girl  who  had  ever  gone  much  to  the  mill  house. 
Nobody  was  surprised  when  Caroline  Royce,  the  older  daugh- 
ter, went  out  to  China  to  be  a  missionary,  or  that  her  mother 
let  her  go  without  a  protest.  The  Royce  women  were  strange, 
anyhow,  people  said ;  with  Carrie  gone,  they  hoped  Enid  would 
grow  up  to  be  more  like  other  folk.  She  dressed  well,  came 
to  town  often  in  her  electric  car,  and  was  always  ready  to 
work  for  the  church  or  the  public  library. 

Besides,  in  Frankfort,  Enid  was  thought  very  pretty, —  in 
itself  a  humanizing  attribute.  She  was  slender,  with  a  small, 
well-shaped  head,  a  smooth,  pale  skin,  and  large,  dark,  opaque 
eyes  with  heavy  lashes.  The  long  line  from  the  lobe  of  her 
ear  to  the  tip  of  her  chin  gave  her  face  a  certain  rigidity,  but 
to  the  old  ladies,  who  are  the  best  critics  in  such  matters, 
this  meant  firmness  and  dignity.  She  moved  quickly  and 
gracefully,  just  brushing  things  rather  than  touching  them, 
so  that  there  was  a  suggestion  of  flight  about  her  slim  figure, 
of  gliding  away  from  her  surroundings.  When  the  Sunday 
School  gave  tableaux  vivantes,  Enid  was  chosen  for  Lydia,  the 
blind  girl  of  Pompeii,  and  for  the  martyr  in  "Christ  or  Diana." 
The  pallor  of  her  skin,  the  submissive  inclination  of  her  fore- 
head, and  her  dark,  unchanging  eyes,  made  one  think  of  some- 
thing "early  Christian." 

On  this  May  morning  when  Claude  Wheeler  came  striding 
up  the  mill  road,  Enid  was  in  the  yard,  standing  by  a  trellis 
for  vines  built  near  the  fence,  out  from  under  the  heavy  shade 
of  the  trees.  She  was  raking  the  earth  that  had  been  spaded 


124  One  °f  Ours 


up  the  day  before,  and  making  furows  in  which  to  drop  seeds. 
From  the  turn  of  the  road,  by  the  knotty  old  willows,  Claude 
saw  her  pink  starched  dress  and  little  white  sun-bonnet.  He 
hurried  forward. 

"Hello,  are  you  farming?"  he  called  as  he  came  up  to  the 
fence. 

Enid,  who  was  bending  over  at  that  moment,  rose  quickly, 
but  without  a  start.  "Why,  Claude !  I  thought  you  were  out 
West  somewhere.  This  is  a  surprise!"  She  brushed  the 
earth  from  her  hands  and  gave  him  her  limp  white  ringers. 
Her  arms,  bare  below  the  elbow,  were  thin,  and  looked  cold, 
as  if  she  had  put  on  a  summer  dress  too  early. 

"I  just  got  back  this  morning.  I'm  walking  out  home. 
What  are  you  planting?" 

"Sweet  peas." 

"You  always  have  the  finest  ones  in  the  country.  When  1 
see  a  bunch  of  yours  at  church  or  anywhere,  I  always  know 
them." 

"Yes,  I'm  quite  successful  with  my  sweet  peas,"  she 
admitted.  "The  ground  is  rich  down  here,  and  they  get  plenty 
of  sun." 

"It  isn't  only  your  sweet  peas.  Nobody  else  has  such  lilacs 
or  rambler  roses,  and  I  expect  you  have  the  only  wistaria 
vine  in  Frankfort  county." 

"Mother  planted  that  a  long  while  ago,  when  she  first  moved 
here.  She  is  very  partial  to  wistaria.  I'm  afraid  we'll  lose 
it,  one  of  these  hard  winters." 

"Oh,  that  would  be  a  shame!  Take  good  care  of  it.  You 
must  put  in  a  lot  of  time  looking  after  these  things,  anyway." 
He  spoke  admiringly. 

Enid  leaned  against  the  fence  and  pushed  back  her  little 


Enid  125 

bonnet.  "Perhaps  I  take  more  interest  in  flowers  than  I  do 
in  people.  I  often  envy  you,  Claude;  you  have  so  many 
interests." 

He  coloured.  "I  ?  Good  gracious,  I  don't  have  many !  I'm 
an  awfully  discontented  sort  of  fellow.  I  didn't  care  about 
going  to  school  until  I  had  to  stop,  and  then  I  was  sore 
because  I  couldn't  go  back.  I  guess  I've  been  sulking  about 
it  all  winter." 

She  looked  at  him  with  quiet  astonishment.  "I  don't  see 
why  you  should  be  discontented ;  you're  so  free." 

"Well,  aren't  you  free,  too?" 

"Not  to  do  what  I  want  to.  The  only  thing  I  really  want 
to  do  is  to  go  out  to  China  and  help  Carrie  in  her  work. 
Mother  thinks  I'm  not  strong  enough.  But  Carrie  was  never 
very  strong  here.  She  is  better  in  China,  and  I  think  I 
might  be." 

Claude  felt  concern.  He  had  not  seen  Enid  since  the  sleigh- 
ride,  when  she  had  been  gayer  than  usual.  Now  she  seemed 
sunk  in  lassitude.  "You  must  get  over  such  notions,  Enid. 
You  don't  want  to  go  wandering  off  alone  like  that.  It  makes 
people  queer.  Isn't  there  plenty  of  missionary  work  to  be 
done  right  here?" 

She  sighed.  "That's  what  everybody  says.  But  we  all  of 
us  have  a  chance,  if  we'll  take  it.  Out  there  they  haven't. 
It's  terrible  to  think  of  all  those  millions  that  live  and  die  in 
darkness." 

Claude  glanced  up  at  the  sombre  mill  house,  hidden  in 
cedars, —  then  off  at  the  bright,  dusty  fields.  He  felt  as  if  he 
were  a  little  to  blame  for  Enid's  melancholy.  He  hadn't  been 
very  neighbourly  this  last  year.  "People  can  live  in  darkness 
here,  too,  unless  they  fight  it.  Look  at  me.  I  told  you  I've 


126  One  of  Ours 


been  moping  all  winter.  We  all  feel  friendly  enough,  but  we 
go  plodding  on  and  never  get  together.  You  and  I  are  old 
friends,  and  yet  we  hardly  ever  see  each  other.  Mother  says 
you've  been  promising  for  two  years  to  run  up  and  have  a 
visit  with  her.  Why  don't  you  come?  It  would  please  her." 

"Then  I  will.  I've  always  been  fond  of  your  mother." 
She  paused  a  moment,  absently  twisting  the  strings  of  her 
bonnet,  then  twitched  it  from  her  head  with  a  quick  movement 
and  looked  at  him  squarely  in  the  bright  light.  "Claude,  you 
haven't  really  become  a  free-thinker,  have  you?" 

He  laughed  outright.     "Why,  what  made  you  think  I  had?" 

"Everybody  knows  Ernest  Havel  is,  and  people  say  you  and 
he  read  that  kind  of  books  together." 

"Has  that  got  anything  to  do  with  our  being  friends?" 

"Yes,  it  has.  I  couldn't  feel  the  same  confidence  in  you. 
I've  worried  about  it  a  good  deal." 

"Well,  you  just  cut  it  out.  For  one  thing,  I'm  not  worth 
it,"  he  said  quickly. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are!  If  worrying  would  do  any  good — " 
she  shook  her  head  at  him  reproachfully. 

Claude  took  hold  of  the  fence  pickets  between  them  with 
both  hands.  "It  will  do  good!  Didn't  I  tell  you  there  was 
missionary  work  to  be  done  right  here?  Is  that  why  you've 
been  so  stand-offish  with  me  the  last  few  years,  because  you 
thought  I  was  an  atheist?" 

"I  never,  you  know,  liked  Ernest  Havel,"  she  murmured. 

When  Claude  left  the  mill  and  started  homeward  he  felt  that 
he  had  found  something  which  would  help  him  through  the 
summer.  How  fortunate  he  had  been  to  come  upon  Enid 
alone  and  talk  to  her  without  interruption, —  without  once  see- 
ing Mrs.  Royce's  face,  always  masked  in  powder,  peering  at 


Enid  127 

him  from  behind  a  drawn  blind.  Mrs.  Royce  had  always 
looked  old,  even  long  ago  when  she  used  to  come  into  church 
with  her  little  girls, —  a  tiny  woman  in  tiny  high-heeled  shoes 
and  a  big  hat  with  nodding  plumes,  her  black  dress  covered 
with  bugles  and  jet  that  glittered  and  rattled  and  made  her 
seem  hard  on  the  outside,  like  an  insect. 

Yes,  he  must  see  to  it  that  Enid  went  about  and  saw  more 
of  other  people.  She  was  too  much  with  her  mother,  and  with 
her  own  thoughts.  Flowers  and  foreign  missions  —  her  garden 
and  the  great  kingdom  of  China ;  there  was  something  unusual 
and  touching  about  her  preoccupations.  Something  quite 
charming,  too.  Women  ought  to  be  religious;  faith  was  the 
natural  fragrance  of  their  minds.  The  more  incredible  the 
things  they  believed,  the  more  lovely  was  the  act  of  belief. 
To  him  the  story  of  "Paradise  Lost"  was  as  mythical  as  the 
"Odyssey";  yet  when  his  mother  read  it  aloud  to  him,  it  was 
not  only  beautiful  but  true.  A  woman  who  didn't  have  holy 
thoughts  about  mysterious  things  far  away  would  be  prosaic 
and  commonplace,  like  a  man. 


Ill 

DURING  the  next  few  weeks  Claude  often  ran  his  car 
down  to  the  mill  house  on  a  pleasant  evening  and 
coaxed  Enid  to  go  into  Frankfort  with  him  and  sit 
through  a  moving  picture  show,  or  to  drive  to  a  neighbouring 
town.  The  advantage  of  this  form  of  companionship  was  that 
it  did  not  put  too  great  a  strain  upon  one's  conversational 
powers.  Enid  could  be  admirably  silent,  and  she  was  never 
embarrassed  by  either  silence  or  speech.  She  was  cool  and 
sure  of  herself  under  any  circumstances,  and  that  was  one 
reason  why  she  drove  a  car  so  well, —  much  better  than  Claude, 
indeed. 

One  Sunday,  when  they  met  after  church,  she  told  Claude 
that  she  wanted  to  go  to  Hastings  to  do  some  shopping,  and 
they  arranged  that  he  should  take  her  on  Tuesday  in  his 
father's  big  car.  The  town  was  about  seventy  miles  to  the 
northeast  and,  from  Frankfort,  it  was  an  inconvenient  trip 
by  rail. 

On  Tuesday  morning  Claude  reached  the  mill  house  just 
as  the  sun  was  rising  over  the  damp  fields.  Enid  was  on  the 
front  porch  waiting  for  him,  wearing  a  blanket  coat  over  her 
spring  suit.  She  ran  down  to  the  gate  and  slipped  into  the 
seat  beside  him. 

"Good  morning,  Claude.  Nobody  else  is  up.  It's  going  to 
be  a  glorious  day,  isn't  it?" 

"Splendid.  A  little  warm  for  this  time  of  year.  You  won't 
need  that  coat  long." 

For  the  first  hour  they  found  the  roads  empty.  All  the 

128 


Enid  129 

fields  were  grey  with  dew,  and  the  early  sunlight  burned  over 
everything  with  the  transparent  brightness  of  a  fire  that  has 
just  been  kindled.  As  the  machine  noiselessly  wound  off  the 
miles,  the  sky  grew  deeper  and  bluer,  and  the  flowers  along 
the  roadside  opened  in  the  wet  grass.  There  were  men  and 
horses  abroad  on  every  hill  now.  Soon  they  began  to  pass 
children  on  the  way  to  school,  who  stopped  and  waved  their 
bright  dinner  pails  at  the  two  travellers.  By  ten  o'clock  they 
were  in  Hastings. 

While  Enid  was  shopping,  Claude  bought  some  white  shoes 
and  duck  trousers.  He  felt  more  interest  than  usual  in  his 
summer  clothes.  They  met  at  the  hotel  for  lunch,  both  very 
hungry  and  both  satisfied  with  their  morning's  work.  Seated 
in  the  dining  room,  with  Enid  opposite  him,  Claude  thought 
they  did  not  look  at  all  like  a  country  boy  and  girl  come  to 
town,  but  like  experienced  people  touring  in  their  car. 

"Will  you  make  a  call  with  me  after  dinner?"  she  asked 
while  they  were  waiting  for  their  dessert. 

"Is  it  any  one  I  know?" 

"Certainly.  Brother  Weldon  is  in  town.  His  meetings  are 
over,  and  I  was  afraid  he  might  be  gone,  but  he  is  staying  on 
a  few  days  with  Mrs.  Gleason.  I  brought  some  of  Carrie's 
letters  along  for  him  to  read." 

Claude  made  a  wry  face.  "He  won't  be  delighted  to  see 
me.  We  never  got  on  well  at  school.  He's  a  regular  muff 
of  a  teacher,  if  you  want  to  know,"  he  added  resolutely. 

Enid  studied  him  judicially.  "I'm  surprised  to  hear  that; 
he's  such  a  good  speaker.  You'd  better  come  along.  It's 
so  foolish  to  have  a  coolness  with  your  old  teachers." 

An  hour  later  the  Reverend  Arthur  Weldon  received  the 
two  young  people  in  Mrs.  Gleason's  half-darkened  parlour, 


130  One  of  Ours 


where  he  seemed  quite  as  much  at  home  as  that  lady  herself. 
The  hostess,  after  chatting  cordially  with  the  visitors  for  a 
few  moments,  excused  herself  to  go  to  a  P.  E.  O.  meeting. 
Every  one  rose  at  her  departure,  and  Mr.  Weldon  approached 
Enid,  took  her  hand,  and  stood  looking  at  her  with  his  head 
inclined  and  his  oblique  smile.  "This  is  an  unexpected  pleas- 
ure, to  see  you  again,  Miss  Enid.  And  you,  too,  Claude," 
turning  a  little  toward  the  latter.  "You've  come  up  from 
Frankfort  together  this  beautiful  day?"  His  tone  seemed  to 
say,  "How  lovely  for  you !" 

He  directed  most  of  his  remarks  to  Enid  and,  as  always, 
avoided  looking  at  Claude  except  when  he  definitely  addressed 
him. 

"You  are  farming  this  year,  Claude?  I  presume  that  is 
a  great  satisfaction  to  your  father.  And  Mrs.  Wheeler  is 
quite  well?" 

Mr.  Weldon  certainly  bore  no  malice,  but  he  always  pro- 
nounced Claude's  name  exactly  like  the  word  "Clod,"  which 
annoyed  him.  To  be  sure,  Enid  pronounced  his  name  in  the 
same  way,  but  either  Claude  did  not  notice  this,  or  did  not 
mind  it  from  her.  He  sank  into  a  deep,  dark  sofa,  and  sat 
with  his  driving  cap  on  his  knee  while  Brother  Weldon  drew 
a  chair  up  to  the  one  open  window  of  the  dusky  room  and 
began  to  read  Carrie  Royce's  letters.  Without  being  asked 
to  do  so,  he  read  them  aloud,  and  stopped  to  comment  from 
time  to  time.  Claude  observed  with  disappointment  that  Enid 
drank  in  all  his  platitudes  just  as  Mrs.  Wheeler  did.  He 
had  never  looked  at  Weldon  so  long  before.  The  light  fell 
full  on  the  young  man's  pear-shaped  head  and  his  thin,  rippled 
hair.  What  in  the  world  could  sensible  women  like  his  mother 
and  Enid  Royce  find  to  admire  in  this  purring,  white-necktied 


Enid  131 

fellow  ?  Enid's  dark  eyes  rested  upon  him  with  an  expression 
of  profound  respect.  She  both  looked  at  him  and  spoke  to 
him  with  more  feeling  than  she  ever  showed  toward  Claude. 

"You  see,  Brother  Weldon,"  she  said  earnestly,  "I  am  not 
naturally  much  drawn  to  people.  I  find  it  hard  to  take  the 
proper  interest  in  the  church  work  at  home.  It  seems  as  if 
I  had  always  been  holding  myself  in  reserve  for  the  foreign 
field, —  by  not  making  personal  ties,  I  mean.  If  Gladys  Farmer 
went  to  China,  everybody  would  miss  her.  She  could  never  be 
replaced  in  the  High  School.  She  has  the  kind  of  magnetism 
that  draws  people  to  her.  But  I  have  always  been  keeping 
myself  free  to  do  what  Carrie  is  doing.  There  I  know  I 
could  be  of  use." 

Claude  saw  it  was  not  easy  for  Enid  to  talk  like  this.  Her 
face  looked  troubled,  and  her  dark  eyebrows  came  together 
in  a  sharp  angle  as  she  tried  to  tell  the  young  preacher  exactly 
what  was  going  on  in  her  mind.  He  listened  with  his  habitual, 
smiling  attention,  smoothing  the  paper  of  the  folded  letter 
pages  and  murmuring,  "Yes,  I  understand.  Indeed,  Miss 
Enid?" 

When  she  pressed  him  for  advice,  he  said  it  was  not  always 
easy  to  know  in  what  field  one  could  be  most  useful;  perhaps 
this  very  restraint  was  giving  her  some  spiritual  discipline  that 
she  particularly  needed.  He  was  careful  not  to  commit  him- 
self, not  to  advise  anything  unconditionally,  except  prayer. 

"I  believe  that  all  things  are  made  clear  to  us  in  prayer, 
Miss  Enid." 

Enid  clasped  her  hands;  her  perplexity  made  her  features 
look  sharper.  "But  it  is  when  I  pray  that  I  feel  this  call  the 
strongest.  It  seems  as  if  a  finger  were  pointing  me  over  there. 
Sometimes  when  I  ask  for  guidance  in  little  things,  I  get  none, 


132  One  of  Ours 

and  only  get  the  feeling  that  my  work  lies  far  away,  and  that 
for  it,  strength  would  be  given  me.  Until  I  take  that  road, 
Christ  withholds  himself." 

Mr.  Weldon  answered  her  in  a  tone  of  relief,  as  if  some- 
thing obscure  had  been  made  clear.  "If  that  is  the  case,  Miss 
Enid,  I  think  we  need  have  no  anxiety.  If  the  call  recurs  to 
you  in  prayer,  and  it  is  your  Saviour's  will,  then  we  can  be 
sure  that  the  way  and  the  means  will  be  revealed.  A  passage 
from  one  of  the  Prophets  occurs  to  me  at  this  moment; 
'And  behold  a  way  shall  be  opened  up  before  thy  feet;  walk 
thou  in  it.'  We  might  say  that  this  promise  was  originally 
meant  for  Enid  Royce !  I  believe  God  likes  us  to  appropriate 
passages  of  His  word  personally."  This  last  remark  was  made 
playfully,  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of  Christian  Endeavour  jest. 
He  rose  and  handed  Enid  back  the  letters.  Clearly,  the  inter- 
view was  over. 

As  Enid  drew  on  her  gloves  she  told  him  that  it  had  been  a 
great  help  to  talk  to  him,  and  that  he  always  seemed  to  give 
her  what  she  needed.  Claude  wondered  what  it  was.  He 
hadn't  seen  Weldon  do  anything  but  retreat  before  her  eager 
questions.  He,  an  "atheist,"  could  have  given  her  stronger 
reinforcement. 

Claude's  car  stood  under  the  maple  trees  in  front  of  Mrs. 
Gleason's  house.  Before  they  got  into  it,  he  called  Enid's 
attention  to  a  mass  of  thunderheads  in  the  west. 

"That  looks  to  me  like  a  storm.  It  might  be  a  wise  thing 
to  stay  at  the  hotel  tonight." 

"Oh,  no!  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  I  haven't  come  pre- 
pared." 

He  reminded  her  that  it  wouldn't  be  impossible  to  buy  what- 
ever she  might  need  for  the  night. 


Enid  133 

"I  don't  like  to  stay  in  a  strange  place  without  my  own 
things,"  she  said  decidedly. 

"I'm  afraid  we'll  be  going  straight  into  it.  We  may  be  in 
for  something  pretty  rough,— but  it's  as  you  say/'  He  still 
hesitated,  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"I  think  we'd  better  try  it,"  she  said  with  quiet  determin- 
ation. Claude  had  not  yet  learned  that  Enid  always  opposed 
the  unexpected,  and  could  not  bear  to  have  her  plans  changed 
by  people  or  circumstances. 

For  an  hour  he  drove  at  his  best  speed,  watching  the  clouds 
anxiously.  The  table-land,  from  horizon  to  horizon,  was 
glowing  in  sunlight,  and  the  sky  itself  seemed  only  the  more 
brilliant  for  the  mass  of  purple  vapours  rolling  in  the  west, 
with  bright  edges,  like  new-cut  lead.  He  had  made  fifty  odd 
miles  when  the  air  suddenly  grew  cold,  and  in  ten  minutes  the 
whole  shining  sky  was  blotted  out.  He  sprang  to  the  ground 
and  began  to  jack  up  his  wheels.  As  soon  as  a  wheel  left  the 
earth,  Enid  adjusted  the  chain.  Claude  told  her  he  had  never 
got  the  chains  on  so  quickly  before.  He  covered  the  packages 
in  the  back  seat  with  an  oilcloth  and  drove  forward  to  meet 
the  storm. 

The  rain  swept  over  them  in  waves,  seemed  to  rise  from  the 
sod  as  well  as  to  fall  from  the  clouds.  They  made  another 
five  miles,  ploughing  through  puddles  and  sliding  over  liquefied 
roads.  Suddenly  the  heavy  car,  chains  and  all,  bounded  up  a 
two-foot  bank,  shot  over  the  sod  a  dozen  yards  before  the 
brake  caught  it,  then  swung  a  half-circle  and  stood  still.  Enid 
sat  calm  and  motionless. 

Claude  drew  a  long  breath.  "If  that  had  happened  on  a 
culvert,  we'd  be  in  the  ditch  with  the  car  on  top  of  us.  I 
simply  can't  control  the  thing.  The  whole  top  soil  is  loose,  and 


134  One  °f  Ours 


there's  nothing  to  hold  to.  That's  Tommy  Rice's  place  over 
there.  We'd  better  get  him  to  take  us  in  for  the  night." 

"But  that  would  be  worse  than  the  hotel,"  Enid  objected. 
"They  are  not  very  clean  people,  and  there  are  a  lot  of  chil- 
dren." 

"Better  be  crowded  than  dead,"  he  murmured.  "From  here 
on,  it  would  be  a  matter  of  luck.  We  might  land  anywhere." 

"We  are  only  about  ten  miles  from  your  place.  I  can  stay 
with  your  mother  tonight." 

"It's  too  dangerous,  Enid.  I  don't  like  the  responsibility. 
Your  father  would  blame  me  for  taking  such  a  chance." 

"I  know,  it's  on  my  account  you're  nervous."  Enid  spoke 
reasonably  enough.  "Do  you  mind  letting  me  drive  for 
awhile?  There  are  only  three  bad  hills  left,  and  I  think  I 
can  slide  down  them  sideways ;  I've  often  tried  it." 

Claude  got  out  and  let  her  slip  into  his  seat,  but  after  she 
took  the  wheel  he  put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "Don't  do  any- 
thing so  foolish,"  he  pleaded. 

Enid  smiled  and  shook  her  head.     She  was  amiable,  but 

inflexible. 

He  folded  his  arms.     "Go  on." 

He  was  chafed  by  her  stubbornness,  but  he  had  to  admire 
her  resourcefulness  in  handling  the  car.  At  the  bottom  of  one 
of  the  worst  hills  was  a  new  cement  culvert,  overlaid  with 
liquid  mud,  where  there  was  nothing  for  the  chains  to  grip. 
The  car  slid  to  the  edge  of  the  culvert  and  stopped  on  the 
very  brink.  While  they  were  ploughing  up  the  other  side  of  the 
hill,  Enid  remarked;  "It's  a  good  thing  your  starter  works 
well ;  a  little  jar  would  have  thrown  us  over." 

They  pulled  up  at  the  Wheeler  farm  just  before  dark,  and 


Enid  135 

Mrs.  Wheeler  came  running  out  to  meet  them  with  a  rubber 
coat  over  her  head. 

"You  poor  drowned  children !"  she  cried,  taking  Enid  in  her 
arms.  "How  did  you  ever  get  home?  I  so  hoped  you  had 
stayed  in  Hastings." 

"It  was  Enid  who  got  us  home,"  Claude  told  her.  "She's 
a  dreadfully  foolhardy  girl,  and  somebody  ought  to  shake  her, 
but  she's  a  fine  driver." 

Enid  laughed  as  she  brushed  a  wet  lock  back  from  her 
forehead.  "You  were  right,  of  course ;  the  sensible  thing  would 
have  been  to  turn  in  at  the  Rice  place ;  only  I  didn't  want  to." 

Later  in  the  evening  Claude  was  glad  they  hadn't.  It  was 
pleasant  to  be  at  home  and  to  see  Enid  at  the  supper  table, 
sitting  on  his  father's  right  and  wearing  one  of  his  mother's 
new  grey  house-dresses.  They  would  have  had  a  dismal  time 
at  the  Rices',  with  no  beds  to  sleep  in  except  such  as  were 
already  occupied  by  Rice  children.  Enid  had  never  slept  in 
his  mother's  guest  room  before,  and  it  pleased  him  to  think 
how  comfortable  she  would  be  there. 

At  an  early  hour  Mrs.  Wheeler  took  a  candle  to  light  her 
guest  to  bed;  Enid  passed  near  Claude's  chair  as  she  was 
leaving  the  room.  "Have  you  forgiven  me?"  she  asked  teas- 
ingly. 

"What  made  you  so  pig-headed  ?  Did  you  want  to  frighten 
me?  or  to  show  me  how  well  you  could  drive?" 

"Neither.     I  wanted  to  get  home.     Good-night." 

Claude  settled  back  in  his  chair  and  shaded  his  eyes.  She 
did  feel  that  this  was  home,  then.  She  had  not  been  afraid  of 
his  father's  jokes,  or  disconcerted  by  Mahailey's  knowing  grin. 
Her  ease  in  the  household  gave  him  unaccountable  pleasure. 


136  One  of  Ours 


He  picked  up  a  book,  but  did  not  read.  It  was  lying  open  on 
his  knee  when  his  mother  came  back  half  an  hour  later. 

"Move  quietly  when  you  go  upstairs,  Claude.  She  is  so 
tired  that  she  may  be  asleep  already." 

He  took  off  his  shoes  and  made  his  ascent  with  the  utmost 
caution. 


IV 

ERNEST   Havel  was   cultivating  his  bright,  glistening 
young   cornfield   one    summer   morning,   whistling   to 
himself    an   old    German    song   which   was    somehow 
connected  with  a  picture  that  rose  in  his  memory.     It  was  a 
picture  of  the  earliest  ploughing  he  could  remember. 

He  saw  a  half-circle  of  green  hills,  with  snow  still  lingering 
in  the  clefts  of  the  higher  ridges ;  behind  the  hills  rose  a  wall 
of  sharp  mountains,  covered  with  dark  pine  forests.  In  the 
meadows  at  the  foot  of  that  sweep  of  hills  there  was  a  winding 
creek,  with  polled  willows  in  their  first  yellow-green,  and 
brown  fields.  He  himself  was  a  little  boy,  playing  by  the  creek 
and  watching  his  father  and  mother  plough  with  two  great 
oxen,  that  had  rope  traces  fastened  to  their  heads  and  their 
long  horns.  His  mother  walked  barefoot  beside  the  oxen  and 
led  them;  his  father  walked  behind,  guiding  the  plough.  His 
father  always  looked  down.  His  mother's  face  was  almost 
as  brown  and  furrowed  as  the  fields,  and  her  eyes  were  pale 
blue,  like  the  skies  of  early  spring.  The  two  would  go  up  and 
down  thus  all  morning  without  speaking,  except  to  the  oxen. 
Ernest  was  the  last  of  a  long  family,  and  as  he  played  by  the 
creek  he  used  to  wonder  why  his  parents  looked  so  old. 

Leonard  Dawson  drove  his  car  up  to  the  fence  and  shouted, 
waking  Ernest  from  his  revery.  He  told  his  team  to  stand, 
and  ran  out  to  the  edge  of  the  field. 

"Hello,  Ernest,"  Leonard  called.  "Have  you  heard  Claude 
Wheeler  got  hurt  day  before  yesterday?" 

i37 


138  One  of  Ours 


"You  don't  say  so!  It  can't  be  anything  bad,  or  they'd  let 
me  know." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  very  bad,  I  guess,  but  he  got  his  face 
scratched  up  in  the  wire  quite  a  little.  It  was  the  queerest 
thing  I  ever  saw.  He  was  out  with  the  team  of  mules  and  a 
heavy  plough,  working  the  road  in  that  deep  cut  between  their 
place  and  mine.  The  gasoline  motor-truck  came  along,  making 
more  noise  than  usual,  maybe.  But  those  mules  know  a  motor 
truck,  and  what  they  did  was  pure  cussedness.  They  begun 
to  rear  and  plunge  in  that  deep  cut.  I  was  working  my  corn 
over  in  the  field  and  shouted  to  the  gasoline  man  to  stop,  but 
he  didn't  hear  me.  Claude  jumped  for  the  critters'  heads  and 
got  'em  by  the  bits,  but  by  that  time  he  was  all  tangled  up  in 
the  lines.  Those  damned  mules  lifted  him  off  his  feet  and 
started  to  run.  Down  the  draw  and  up  the  bank  and  across 
the  fields  they  went,  with  that  big  plough-blade  jumping  three 
or  four  feet  in  the  air  every  clip.  I  was  sure  it  would  cut  one 
of  the  mules  open,  or  go  clean  through  Claude.  It  would 
have  got  him,  too,  if  he  hadn't  kept  his  hold  on  the  bits.  They 
carried  him  right  along,  swinging  in  the  air,  and  finally  ran 
him  into  the  barb-wire  fence  and  cut  his  face  and  neck  up." 

"My  goodness!     Did  he  get  cut  bad?" 

"No,  not  very,  but  yesterday  morning  he  was  out  cultivating 
corn,  all  stuck  up  with  court  plaster.  I  knew  that  was  a  fool 
thing  to  do ;  a  wire  cut's  nasty  if  you  get  overheated  out  in 
the  dust.  But  you  can't  tell  a  Wheeler  anything.  Now  they 
say  his  face  has  swelled  and  is  hurting  him  terrible,  and  he's 
gone  to  town  to  see  the  doctor.  You'd  better  go  over  there 
tonight,  and  see  if  you  can  make  him  take  care  of  himself." 

Leonard  drove  on,  and  Ernest  went  back  to  his  team.  "It's 
queer  about  that  boy,"  he  was  thinking.  "He's  big  and  strong, 


Enid  139 

and  he's  got  an  education  and  all  that  fine  land,  but  he  don't 
seem  to  fit  in  right."  Sometimes  Ernest  thought  his  friend 
was  unlucky.  When  that  idea  occurred  to  him,  he  sighed  and 
shook  it  off.  For  Ernest  believed  there  was  no  help  for  that; 
it  was  something  rationalism  did  not  explain. 

The  next  afternoon  Enid  Royce's  coupe  drove  up  to  the 
Wheeler  farmyard.  Mrs.  Wheeler  saw  Enid  get  out  of  her 
car  and  came  down  the  hill  to  meet  her,  breathless  and  dis- 
tressed. "Oh,  Enid !  You've  heard  of  Claude's  accident  ?  He 
wouldn't  take  care  of  himself,  and  now  he's  got  erysipelas. 
He's  in  such  pain,  poor  boy !" 

Enid  took  her  arm,  and  they  started  up  the  hill  toward  the 
house.  "Can  I  see  Claude,  Mrs.  Wheeler?  I  want  to  give 
him  these  flowers." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  hesitated.  "I  don't  know  if  he  will  let  you 
come  in,  dear.  I  had  hard  work  persuading  him  to  see  Ernest 
for  a  few  moments  last  night.  He  seems  so  low-spirited,  and 
he's  sensitive  about  the  way  he's  bandaged  up.  I'll  go  to  his 
room  and  ask  him." 

"No,  just  let  me  go  up  with  you,  please.  If  I  walk  in  with 
you,  he  won't  have  time  to  fret  about  it.  I  won't  stay  if  he 
doesn't  wish  it,  but  I  want  to  see  him." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  was  alarmed  at  this  suggestion,  but  Enid 
ignored  her  uncertainty.  They  went  up  to  the  third  floor 
together,  and  Enid  herself  tapped  at  the  door. 

"It's  I,  Claude.     May  I  come  in  for  a  moment?" 

A  muffled,  reluctant  voice  answered.  "No.  They  say  this 
is  catching,  Enid.  And  anyhow,  I'd  rather  you  didn't  see  me 
like  this." 

Without  waiting  she  pushed  open  the  door.  The  dark  blinds 
were  down,  and  the  room  was  full  of  a  strong,  bitter  odor. 


140  One  of  Ours 


Claude  lay  flat  in  bed,  his  head  and  face  so  smothered  in  sur- 
gical cotton  that  only  his  eyes  and  the  tip  of  his  nose  were 
visible.  The  brown  paste  with  which  his  features  were  smeared 
oozed  out  at  the  edges  of  the  gauze  and  made  his  dressings 
look  untidy.  Enid  took  in  these  details  at  a  glance. 

"Does  the  light  hurt  your  eyes?  Let  me  put  up  one  of 
the  blinds  for  a  moment,  because  I  want  you  to  see  these 
flowers.  I've  brought  you  my  first  sweet  peas." 

Claude  blinked  at  the  bunch  of  bright  colours  she  held  out 
before  him.  She  put  them  up  to  his  face  and  asked  him  if  he 
could  smell  them  through  his  medicines.  In  a  moment  he 
ceased  to  feel  embarrassed.  His  mother  brought  a  glass  bowl, 
and  Enid  arranged  the  flowers  on  the  little  table  beside  him. 

"Now,  do  you  want  me  to  darken  the  room  again?" 

"Not  yet.  Sit  down  for  a  minute  and  talk  to  me.  I  can't 
say  much  because  my  face  is  stiff." 

"I  should  think  it  would  be !  I  met  Leonard  Dawson  on  the 
road  yesterday,  and  he  told  me  how  you  worked  in  the  field 
after  you  were  cut.  I  would  like  to  scold  you  hard,  Claude." 

"Do.  It  might  make  me  feel  better."  He  took  her  hand 
and  kept  her  beside  him  a  moment.  "Are  those  the  sweet  peas 
you  were  planting  that  day  when  I  came  back  from  the  West  ?" 

"Yes.     Haven't  they  done  well  to  blossom  so  early?" 

"Less  than  two  months.     That's  strange,"  he  sighed. 

"Strange?    What?" 

"Oh,  that  a  handful  of  seeds  can  make  anything  so  pretty 
in  a  few  weeks,  and  it  takes  a  man  so  long  to  do  anything  — 
and  then  it's  not  much  account." 

"That's  not  the  way  to  look  at  things,"  she  said  reprovingly. 

Enid  sat  prim  and  straight  on  a  chair  at  the  foot  of  his  bed. 
Her  flowered  organdie  dress  was  very  much  like  the  bouquet 


Enid  141 

she  had  brought,  and  her  floppy  straw  hat  had  a  big  lilac  bow. 
She  began  to  tell  Claude  about  her  father's  several  attacks 
of  erysipelas.  He  listened  but  absently.  He  would  never 
have  believed  that  Enid,  with  her  severe  notions  of  decorum, 
would  come  into  his  room  and  sit  with  him  like  this.  He 
noticed  that  his  mother  was  quite  as  much  astonished  as  he. 
She  hovered  about  the  visitor  for  a  few  moments,  and  then, 
seeing  that  Enid  was  quite  at  her  ease,  went  downstairs  to 
her  work.  Claude  wished  that  Enid  would  not  talk  at  all, 
but  would  sit  there  and  let  him  look  at  her.  The  sunshine 
she  had  let  into  the  room,  and  her  tranquil,  fragrant  presence, 
soothed  him.  Presently  he  realized  that  she  was  asking  him 
something. 

"What  is  it,  Enid?  The  medicine  they  give  me  makes  me 
stupid.  I  don't  catch  things." 

"I  was  asking  whether  you  play  chess/' 

"Very  badly." 

"Father  says  I  play  passably  well.  When  you  are  better 
you  must  let  me  bring1  up  my  ivory  chessmen  that  Carrie 
sent  me  from  China.  They  are  beautifully  carved.  And  now 
it's  time  for  me  to  go." 

She  rose  and  patted  his  hand,  telling  him  he  must  not  be 
foolish  about  seeing  people.  "I  didn't  know  you  were  so  vain. 
Bandages  are  as  becoming  to  you  as  they  are  to  anybody. 
Shall  I  pull  the  dark  blind  again  for  you?" 

"Yes,  please.     There  won't  be  anything  to  look  at  now." 

"Why,  Claude,  you  are  getting  to  be  quite  a  ladies'  man!" 

Something  in  the  way  Enid  said  this  made  him  wince  a 
little.  He  felt  his  burning  face  grow  a  shade  warmer.  Even 
after  she  went  downstairs  he  kept  wishing  she  had  not  said 
that. 


142  One  of  Ours 


His  mother  came  to  give  him  his  medicine.  She  stood 
beside  him  while  he  swallowed  it.  "Enid  Royce  is  a  real 
sensible  girl — "  she  said  as  she  took  the  glass.  Her  upward 
inflection  expressed  not  conviction  but  bewilderment. 

Enid  came  every  afternoon,  and  Claude  looked  forward  to 
her  visits  restlessly;  they  were  the  only  pleasant  things  that 
happened  to  him,  and  made  him  forget  the  humiliation  of  his 
poisoned  and  disfigured  face.  He  was  disgusting  to  himself ; 
when  he  touched  the  welts  on  his  forehead  and  under  his  hair, 
he  felt  unclean  and  abject.  At  night,  when  his  fever  ran 
high,  and  the  pain  began  to  tighten  in  his  head  and  neck,  it 
wrought  him  to  a  distressing  pitch  of  excitement.  He  fought 
with  it  as  one  bulldog  fights  with  another.  His  mind  prowled 
about  among  dark  legends  of  torture, —  everything  he  had  ever 
read  about  the  Inquisition,  the  rack  and  the  wheel. 

When  Enid  entered  his  room,  cool  and  fresh  in  her  pretty 
summer  clothes,  his  mind  leaped  to  meet  her.  He  could  not 
talk  much,  but  he  lay  looking  at  her  and  breathing  in  a  sweet 
contentment.  After  awhile  he  was  well  enough  to  sit  up  half- 
dressed  in  a  steamer  chair  and  play  chess  with  her. 

One  afternoon  they  were  by  the  west  window  in  the  sitting- 
room  with  the  chess  board  between  them,  and  Claude  had  to 
admit  that  he  was  beaten  again. 

"It  must  be  dull  for  you,  playing  with  me,"  he  murmured, 
brushing  the  beads  of  sweat  from  his  forehead.  His  face 
was  clean  now,  so  white  that  even  his  freckles  had  disappeared, 
and  his  hands  were  the  soft,  languid  hands  of  a  sick  man. 

"You  will  play  better  when  you  are  stronger  and  can  fix 
your  mind  on  it,"  Enid  assured  him.  She  was  puzzled  because 
Claude,  who  had  a  good  head  for  some  things,  had  none  at  all 
for  chess,  and  it  was  clear  that  he  would  never  play  well. 


Enid  143 

"Yes,"  he  sighed,  dropping  back  into  his  chair,  "my  wits 
do  wander.  Look  at  my  wheatfield,  over  there  on  the  sky- 
line. Isn't  it  lovely  ?  And  now  I  won't  be  able  to  harvest  it. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  I'll  ever  finish  anything  I  begin." 

Enid  put  the  chessmen  back  into  their  box.  "Now  that  you 
are  better,  you  must  stop  feeling  blue.  Father  says  that  with 
your  trouble  people  are  always  depressed." 

Claude  shook  his  head  slowly,  as  it  lay  against  the  back  of 
the  chair.  "No,  it's  not  that.  It's  having  so  much  time  to 
think  that  makes  me  blue.  You  see,  Enid,  I've  never  yet 
done  anything  that  gave  me  any  satisfaction.  I  must  be  good 
for  something.  When  I  lie  still  and  think,  I  wonder  whether 
my  life  has  been  happening  to  me  or  to  somebody  else.  It 
doesn't  seem  to  have  much  connection  with  me.  I  haven't 
made  much  of  a  start." 

"But  you  are  not  twenty-two  yet.  You  have  plenty  of 
time  to  start.  Is  that  what  you  are  thinking  about  all  the 
time!"  She  shook  her  finger  at  him. 

"I  think  about  two  things  all  the  time.  That  is  one  of 
them."  Mrs.  Wheeler  came  in  with  Claude's  four  o'clock  milk ; 
it  was  his  first  day  downstairs. 

When  they  were  children,  playing  by  the  mill-dam,  Claude 
had  seen  the  future  as  a  luminous  vagueness  in  which  he  and 
Enid  would  always  do  things  together.  Then  there  came  a 
time  when  he  wanted  to  do  everything  with  Ernest,  when  girls 
were  disturbing  and  a  bother,  and  he  pushed  all  that  into  the 
distance,  knowing  that  some  day  he  must  reckon  with  it  again. 

Now  he  told  himself  he  had  always  known  Enid  would 
come  back;  and  she  had  come  on  that  afternoon  when  she 
entered  his  drug-smelling  room  and  let  in  the  sunlight.  She 


144  One  °f  Ours 


would  have  done  that  for  nobody  but  him.  She  was  not  a 
girl  who  would  depart  lightly  from  conventions  that  she  rec- 
ognized as  authoritative.  He  remembered  her  as  she  used  to 
march  up  to  the  platform  for  Children's  Day  exercises  with 
the  other  little  girls  of  the  infant  class;  in  her  stiff  white 
dress,  never  a  curl  awry  or  a  wrinkle  in  her  stocking,  keeping 
her  little  comrades  in  order  by  the  acquiescent  gravity  of  her 
face,  which  seemed  to  say,  "How  pleasant  it  is  to  do  thus  and 
to  do  Right!" 

Old  Mr.  Smith  was  the  minister  in  those  days, —  a  good 
man  who  had  been  much  tossed  about  by  a  stormy  and  tem- 
peramental wife  —  and  his  eyes  used  to  rest  yearningly  upon 
little  Enid  Royce,  seeing  in  her  the  promise  of  "virtuous  and 
comely  Christian  womanhood,"  to  use  one  of  his  own  phrases. 
Claude,  in  the  boys'  class  across  the  aisle,  used  to  tease  her 
and  try  to  distract  her,  but  he  respected  her  seriousness. 

When  they  played  together  she  was  fair-minded,  didn't  whine 
if  she  got  hurt,  and  never  claimed  a  girl's  exemption  from  any- 
thing unpleasant.  She  was  calm,  even  on  the  day  when  she 
fell  into  the  mill-dam  and  he  fished  her  out;  as  soon  as  she 
stopped  choking  and  coughing  up  muddy  water,  she  wiped 
her  face  with  her  little  drenched  petticoats,  and  sat  shivering 
and  saying  over  and  over,  "Oh,  Claude,  Claude!"  Incidents 
like  that  one  now  seemed  to  him  significant  and  fateful. 

When  Claude's  strength  began  to  return  to  him,  it  came 
overwhelmingly.  His  blood  seemed  to  grow  strong  while  his 
body  was  still  weak,  so  that  the  in-rush  of  vitality  shook  him. 
The  desire  to  live  again  sang  in  his  veins  while  his  frame 
was  unsteady.  Waves  of  youth  swept  over  him  and  left  him 
exhausted.  When  Enid  was  with  him  these  feelings  were 
never  so  strong;  her  actual  presence  restored  his  equilibrium 


Enid 


—  almost.  This  fact  did  not  perplex  him;  he  fondly  attrib- 
uted it  to  something  beautiful  in  the  girl's  nature,  —  a  quality 
so  lovely  and  subtle  that  there  is  no  name  for  it. 

During  the  first  days  of  his  recovery  he  did  nothing  but 
enjoy  the  creeping  stir  of  life.  Respiration  was  a  soft  phys- 
ical pleasure.  In  the  nights,  so  long  he  could  not  sleep  them 
through,  it  was  delightful  to  lie  upon  a  cloud  that  floated 
lazily  down  the  sky.  In  the  depths  of  this  lassitude  the 
thought  of  Enid  would  start  up  like  a  sweet,  burning  pain, 
and  he  would  drift  out  into  the  darkness  upon  sensations  he 
could  neither  prevent  nor  control.  So  long  as  he  could  plough, 
pitch  hay,  or  break  his  back  in  the  wheatfield,  he  had  been 
master;  but  now  he  was  overtaken  by  himself.  Enid  was 
meant  for  him  and  she  had  come  for  him  ;  he  would  never  let 
her  go.  She  should  never  know  how  much  he  longed  for  her, 
She  would  be  slow  to  feel  even  a  little  of  what  he  was  feeling; 
he  knew  that.  It  would  take  a  long  while.  But  he  would  be 
infinitely  patient,  infinitely  tender  of  her.  It  should  be  he  who 
suffered,  not  she.  Even  in  his  dreams  he  never  wakened 
her,  but  loved  her  while  she  was  still  and  unconscious  like  a 
statue.  He  would  shed  love  upon  her  until  she  warmed  and 
changed  without  knowing  why. 

Sometimes  when  Enid  sat  unsuspecting  beside  him,  a  quick 
blush  swept  across  his  face  and  he  felt  guilty  toward  her,  — 
meek  and  humble,  as  if  he  must  beg  her  forgiveness  for  some- 
thing. Often  he  was  glad  when  she  went  away  and  left  him 
alone  to  think  about  her.  Her  presence  brought  him  sanity, 
and  for  that  he  ought  to  be  grateful.  When  he  was  with  her, 
he  thought  how  she  was  to  be  the  one  who  would  put  him 
right  with  the  world  and  make  him  fit  into  the  life  about 
him.  He  had  troubled  his  mother  and  disappointed  his  father. 


146  One  of  Ours 


His  marriage  would  be  the  first  natural,  dutiful,  expected 
thing  he  had  ever  done.  It  would  be  the  beginning  of  use- 
fulness and  content;  as  his  mother's  oft-repeated  Psalm  said, 
it  would  restore  his  soul.  Enid's  willingness  to  listen  to  him 
he  could  scarcely  doubt.  Her  devotion  to  him  during  his  ill- 
ness was  probably  regarded  by  her  friends  as  equivalent  to 
an  engagement. 


CLAUDE'S  first  trip  to  Frankfort  was  to  get  his  hair 
cut.  After  leaving  the  barber-shop  he  presented  him- 
self, glistening  with  bayrum,  at  Jason  Royce's  office. 
Mr.  Royce,  in  the  act  of  closing  his  safe,  turned  and  took 
the  young  man  by  the  hand. 

"Hello,  Claude,  glad  to  see  you  around  again!  Sickness 
can't  do  much  to  a  husky  young  farmer  like  you.  With  old 
fellows,  it's  another  story.  I'm  just  starting  off  to  have  a  look 
at  my  alfalfa,  south  of  the  river.  Get  in  and  go  along  with 
me." 

They  went  out  to  the  open  car  that  stood  by  the  sidewalk, 
and  when  they  were  spinning  along  between  fields  of  ripening 
grain  Claude  broke  the  silence.  "I  expect  you  know  what  I 
want  to  see  you  about,  Mr.  Royce?" 

The  older  man  shook  his  head.  He  had  been  preoccupied 
and  grim  ever  since  they  started. 

"Well,"  Claude  went  on  modestly,  "it  oughtn't  to  surprise 
you  to  hear  that  I've  set  my  heart  on  Enid.  I  haven't  said 
anything  to  her  yet,  but  if  you're  not  against  me,  I'm  going 
to  try  to  persuade  her  to  marry  me." 

"Marriage  is  a  final  sort  of  thing,  Claude,"  said  Mr.  Royce. 
He  sat  slumping  in  his  seat,  watching  the  road  ahead  of  him 
with  intense  abstraction,  looking  more  gloomy  and  grizzled 
than  usual.  "Enid  is  a  vegetarian,  you  know,"  he  remarked 
unexpectedly. 

Claude  smiled.  "That  could  hardly  make  any  difference  to 
me,  Mr.  Royce." 


148  One  of  Ours 


The  other  nodded  slightly.  "I  know.  At  your  age  you 
think  it  doesn't.  Such  things  do  make  a  difference,  however." 
His  lips  closed  over  his  half -dead  cigar,  and  for  some  time  fie 
did  not  open  them. 

"Enid  is  a  good  girl,"  he  said  at  last.  "Strictly  speaking, 
she  has  more  brains  than  a  girl  needs.  If  Mrs.  Royce  had 
another  daughter  at  home,  I'd  take  Enid  into  my  office.  She 
has  good  judgment.  I  don't  know  but  she'd  run  a  business 
better  than  a  house."  Having  got  this  out,  Mr.  Royce  relaxed 
his  frown,  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth,  looked  at  it,  and 
put  it  back  between  his  teeth  without  relighting  it. 

Claude  was  watching  him  with  surprise.  "There's  no  ques- 
tion about  Enid,  Mr.  Royce.  I  didn't  come  to  ask  you  about 
her,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  came  to  ask  if  you'd  be  willing  to 
have  me  for  a  son-in-law.  I  know,  and  you  know,  that  Enid 
could  do  a  great  deal  better  than  to  marry  me.  I  surely 
haven't  made  much  of  a  showing,  so  far." 

"Here  we  are,"  announced  Mr.  Royce.  "I'll  leave  the  car 
under  this  elm,  and  we'll  go  up  to  the  north  end  of  the  field 
and  have  a  look." 

They  crawled  under  the  wire  fence  and  started  across  the 
rough  ground  through  a  field  of  purple  blossoms.  Clouds  of 
yellow  butterflies  darted  up  before  them.  They  walked  jerkily, 
breaking  through  the  sun-baked  crust  into  the  soft  soil  beneath. 
Mr.  Royce  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  and  as  he  threw  away  the  match 
let  his  hand  drop  on  the  young  man's  shoulder.  "I  always 
envied  your  father.  You  took  my  fancy  when  you  were  a 
little  shaver,  and  I  used  to  let  you  in  to  see  the  water-wheel. 
When  I  gave  up  water  power  and  put  in  an  engine,  I  said  to 
myself;  'There's  just  one  fellow  in  the  country  will  be  sorry 
to  see  the  old  wheel  go,  and  that's  Claude  Wheeler.' " 


Enid 


149 


"I  hope  you  don't  think  I'm  too  young  to  marry,"  Claude 
said  as  they  tramped  on. 

"No,  it's  right  and  proper  a  young  man  should  marry.  I 
don't  say  anything  against  marriage,"  Mr.  Royce  protested 
doggedly.  "You  may  find  some  opposition  in  Enid's  mis- 
sionary motives.  I  don't  know  how  she  feels  about  that  now. 
I  don't  enquire.  I'd  be  pleased  to  see  her  get  rid  of  such 
notions.  They  don't  do  a  woman  any  good." 

"I  want  to  help  her  get  rid  of  them.  If  it's  all  right  with 
you,  I  hope  I  can  persuade  Enid  to  marry  me  this  fall." 

Jason  Royce  turned  his  head  quickly  toward  his  companion, 
studied  his  artless,  hopeful  countenance  for  a  moment,  and 
then  looked  away  with  a  frown. 

The  alfalfa  field  sloped  upward  at  one  corner,  lay  like  a 
bright  green-and-purple  handkerchief  thrown  down  on  the  hill- 
side. At  the  uppermost  angle  grew  a  slender  young  cotton- 
wood,  with  leaves  as  light  and  agitated  as  the  swarms  of  little 
butterflies  that  hovered  above  the  clover.  Mr.  Royce  made 
for  this  tree,  took  off  his  black  coat,  rolled  it  up,  and  sat  down 
on  it  in  the  flickering  shade.  His  shirt  showed  big  blotches 
of  moisture,  and  the  sweat  was  rolling  in  clear  drops  along 
the  creases  in  his  brown  neck.  He  sat  with  his  hands  clasped 
over  his  knees,  his  heels  braced  in  the  soft  soil,  and  looked 
blankly  off  across  the  field.  He  found  himself  absolutely  un- 
able to  touch  upon  the  vast  body  of  experience  he  wished 
to  communicate  to  Claude.  It  lay  in  his  chest  like  a  physical 
misery,  and  the  desire  to  speak  struggled  there.  But  he  had 
no  words,  no  way  to  make  himself  understood.  He  had  no 
argument  to  present.  What  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  hold  up 
life  as  he  had  found  it,  like  a  picture,  to  his  young  friend; 
to  wani  him,  without  explanation,  against  certain  heart-break- 


150  One  of  Ours 


ing  disappointments.  It  could  not  be  done,  he  saw.  The 
dead  might  as  well  try  to  speak  to  the  living  as  the  old  to  the 
young.  The  only  way  that  Claude  could  ever  come  to  share 
his  secret,  was  to  live.  His  strong  yellow  teeth  closed  tighter 
and  tighter  on  the  cigar,  which  had  gone  out  like  the  first. 
He  did  not  look  at  Claude,  but  while  he  watched  the  wind 
plough  soft,  flowery  roads  in  the  field,  the  boy's  face  was 
clearly  before  him,  with  its  expression  of  reticent  pride  melt- 
ing into  the  desire  to  please,  and*  the  slight  stiffness  of  his 
shoulders,  set  in  a  kind  of  stubborn  loyalty.  Claude  lay  on 
the  sod  beside  him,  rather  tired  after  his  walk  in  the  sun,  a 
little  melancholy,  though  he  did  not  know  why. 

After  a  long  while  Mr.  Royce  unclasped  his  broad,  thick- 
fingered  miller's  hands,  and  for  a  moment  took  out  the  mac- 
erated cigar.  "Well,  Claude,"  he  said  with  determined  cheer- 
fulness, "we'll  always  be  better  friends  than  is  common 
between  father  and  son-in-law.  You'll  find  out  that  pretty 
nearly  everything  you  believe  about  life  —  about  marriage, 
especially  —  is  lies.  I  don't  know  why  people  prefer  to  live 
in  that  sort  of  a  world,  but  they  do." 


VI 

AFTER  his  interview  with  Mr.  Royce,  Claude  drove 
directly  to  the  mill  house.  As  he  came  up  the  shady 
road,  he  saw  with  disappointment  the  flash  of  two 
white  dresses  instead  of  one,  moving  about  in  the  sunny  flower 
garden.  The  visitor  was  Gladys  Farmer.  This  was  her  vaca- 
tion time.  She  had  walked  out  to  the  mill  in  the  cool  of  the 
morning  to  spend  the  day  with  Enid.  Now  they  were  starting 
off  to  gather  water-cresses,  and  had  stopped  in  the  garden  to 
smell  the  heliotrope.  On  this  scorching  afternoon  the  purple 
sprays  gave  out  a  fragrance  that  hung  over  the  flower-bed  and 
brushed  their  cheeks  like  a  warm  breath.  The  girls  looked  up 
at  the  same  moment  and  recognized  Claude.  They  waved  to 
him  and  hurried  down  to  the  gate  to  congratulate  him  on  his 
recovery.  He  took  their  little  tin  pails  and  followed  them 
around  the  old  dam-head  and  up  a  sandy  gorge,  along  a  clear 
thread  of  water  that  trickled  into  Lovely  Creek  just  above  the 
mill.  They  came  to  the  gravelly  hill  where  the  stream  took  its 
source  from  a  spring  hollowed  out  under  the  exposed  roots  of 
two  elm  trees.  All  about  the  spring,  and  in  the  sandy  bed 
of  the  shallow  creek,  the  cresses  grew  cool  and  green. 

Gladys  had  strong  feelings  about  places.  She  looked  around 
her  with  satisfaction.  "Of  all  the  places  where  we  used  to 
play,  Enid,  this  was  my  favourite/'  she  declared. 

"You  girls  sit  up  there  on  the  elm  roots,"  Claude  suggested. 
"Wherever  you  put  your  foot  in  this  soft  gravel,  water 
gathers.  You'll  spoil  your  white  shoes.  I'll  get  the  cress  for 
you/' 

151 


152  One  of  Ours 


"Stuff  my  pail  as  full  as  you  can,  then/'  Gladys  called  as 
they  sat  down.  "I  wonder  why  the  Spanish  dagger  grows 
so  thick  on  this  hill,  Enid?  These  plants  were  old  and  tough 
when  we  were  little.  I  love  it  here." 

She  leaned  back  upon  the  hot,  glistening  hill-side.  The 
sun  came  down  in  red  rays  through  the  elm-tops,  and  all  the 
pebbles  and  bits  of  quartz  glittered  dazzlingly.  Down  in  the 
stream  bed  the  water,  where  it  caught  the  light,  twinkled  like 
tarnished  gold.  Claude's  sandy  head  and  stooping  shoulders 
were  mottled  with  sunshine  as  they  moved  about  over  the 
green  patches,  and  his  duck  trousers  looked  much  whiter  than 
they  were.  Gladys  was  too  poor  to  travel,  but  she  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  able  to  see  a  great  deal  within  a  few  miles 
of  Frankfort,  and  a  warm  imagination  helped  her  to  find  life 
interesting.  She  did,  as  she  confided  to  Enid,  want  to  go  to 
Colorado;  she  was  ashamed  of  never  having  seen  a  moun- 
tain. 

Presently  Claude  came  up  the  bank  with  two  shining,  drip- 
ping pails.  "Now  may  I  sit  down  with  you  for  a  few  min- 
utes?" 

Moving  to  make  room  for  him  beside  her,  Enid  noticed 
that  his  thin  face  was  heavily  beaded  with  perspiration.  His 
pocket  handkerchief  was  wet  and  sandy,  so  she  gave  him  her 
own,  with  a  proprietary  air.  "Why,  Claude,  you  look  quite 
tired!  Have  you  been  over-doing?  Where  were  you  before 
you  came  here  ?" 

"I  was  out  in  the  country  with  your  father,  looking  at  his 
alfalfa." 

"And  he  walked  you  all  over  the  field  in  the  hot  sun,  I 
suppose?" 

Claude  laughed.     "He  did." 


Enid  153 

"Well,  I'll  scold  him  tonight.  You  stay  here  and  rest.  I 
am  going  to  drive  Gladys  home." 

Gladys  protested,  but  at  last  consented  that  they  should  both 
drive  her  home  in  Claude's  car.  They  lingered  awhile,  how- 
ever, listening  to  the  soft,  amiable  bubbling  of  the  spring;  a 
wise,  unobtrusive  voice,  murmuring  night  and  day,  continually 
telling  the  truth  to  people  who  could  not  understand  it. 

When  they  went  back  to  the  house  Enid  stopped  long  enough 
to  cut  a  bunch  of  heliotrope  for  Mrs.  Farmer, —  though  with 
the  sinking  of  the  sun  its  rich  perfume  had  already  vanished. 
They  left  Gladys  and  her  flowers  and  cresses  at  the  gate  of 
the  white  cottage,  now  half  hidden  by  gaudy  trumpet  vines. 

Claude  turned  his  car  and  went  back  along  the  dim,  twilight 
road  with  Enid.  "I  usually  like  to  see  Gladys,  but  when  I 
found  her  with  you  this  afternoon,  I  was  terribly  disappointed 
for  a  minute.  I'd  just  been  talking  with  your  father,  and  I 
wanted  to  come  straight  to  you.  Do  you  think  you  could 
marry  me,  Enid?" 

"I  don't  believe  it  would  be  for  the  best,  Claude."  She 
spoke  sadly. 

He  took  her  passive  hand.     "Why  not  ?" 

"My  mind  is  full  of  other  plans.  Marriage  is  for  most 
girls,  but  not  for  all." 

Enid  had  taken  off  her  hat.  In  the  low  evening  light  Claude 
studied  her  pale  face  under  her  brown  hair.  There  was  some- 
thing graceful  and  charming  about  the  way  she  held  her  head, 
something  that  suggested  both  submissiveness  and  great  firm- 
ness. "I've  had  those  far-away  dreams,  too,  Enid;  but  now 
my  thoughts  don't  get  any  further  than  you.  If  you  could 
care  ever  so  little  for  me  to  start  on,  I'd  be  willing  to  risk 
the  rest." 


One  of  Ours 


She  sighed.  "You  know  I  care  for  you.  I've  never  made 
any  secret  of  it.  But  we're  happy  as  we  are,  aren't  we?" 

"No,  I'm  not.  I've  got  to  have  some  life  of  my  own,  or  I'll 
go  to  pieces.  If  you  won't  have  me,  I'll  try  South  America,— 
and  I  won't  come  back  until  I  am  an  old  man  and  you  are  an 
old  woman." 

Enid  looked  at  him,  and  they  both  smiled. 

The  mill  house  was  black  except  for  a  light  in  one  upstairs 
window.  Claude  sprang  out  of  his  car  and  lifted  Enid  gently 
to  the  ground.  She  let  him  kiss  her  soft  cool  mouth,  and  her 
long  lashes.  In  the  pale,  dusty  dusk,  lit  only  by  a  few  white 
stars,  and  with  the  chill  of  the  creek  already  in  the  air,  she 
seemed  to  Claude  like  a  shivering  little  ghost  come  up  from 
the  rushes  where  the  old  mill-dam  used  to  be.  A  terrible 
melancholy  clutched  at  the  boy's  heart.  He  hadn't  thought 
it  would  be  like  this.  He  drove  home  feeling  weak  and  broken. 
Was  there  nothing  in  the  world  outside  to  answer  to  his  own 
feelings,  and  was  every  turn  to  be  fresh  disappointment? 
Why  was  life  so  mysteriously  hard?  This  country  itself  was 
sad,  he  thought,  looking  about  him, —  and  you  could  no  more 
change  that  than  you  could  change  the  story  in  an  unhappy 
human  face.  He  wished  to  God  he  were  sick  again ;  the  world 
was  too  rough  a  place  to  get  about  in. 

There  was  one  person  in  the  world  who  felt  sorry  for  Claude 
that  night.  Gladys  Farmer  sat  at  her  bedroom  window  for  a 
long  while,  watching  the  stars  and  thinking  about  what  she  had 
seen  plainly  enough  that  afternoon.  She  had  liked  Enid  ever 
since  they  were  little  girls, —  and  knew  all  there  was  to  know 
about  her.  Claude  would  become  one  of  those  dead  people 
that  moved  about  the  streets  of  Frankfort ;  everything  that  was 


Enid  155 

Claude  would  perish,  and  the  shell  of  him  would  come  and  go 
and  eat  and  sleep  for  fifty  years.  Gladys  had  taught  the 
children  of  many  such  dead  men.  She  had  worked  out  a 
misty  philosophy  for  herself,  full  of  strong  convictions  and 
confused  figures.  She  believed  that  all  things  which  might 
make  the  world  beautiful  —  love  and  kindness,  leisure  and  art  — 
were  shut  up  in  prison,  and  that  successful  men  like  Bayliss 
Wheeler  held  the  keys.  The  generous  ones,  who  would  let 
these  things  out  to  make  people  happy,  were  somehow  weak, 
and  conld  not  break  the  bars.  Even  her  own  little  life  was 
squeezed  into  an  unnatural  shape  by  the  domination  of  people 
like  Bayliss.  She  had  not  dared,  for  instance,  to  go  to  Ornaha 
that  spring  for  the  three  performances  of  the  Chicago  Opera 
Company.  Such  an  extravagance  would  have  aroused  a  cor- 
rective spirit  in  all  her  friends,  and  in  the  schoolboard  as  well ; 
they  would  probably  have  decided  not  to  give  her  the  little 
increase  in  salary  she  counted  upon  having  next  year. 

There  were  people,  even  in  Frankfort,  who  had  imagination 
and  generous  impulses,  but  they  were  all,  she  had  to  admit, 
inefficient  —  failures.  There  was  Miss  Livingstone,  the  fiery  > 
emotional  old  maid  who  couldn't  tell  the  truth ;  old  Mr.  Smith, 
a  lawyer  without  clients,  who  read  Shakespeare  and  Dryden 
all  day  long  in  his  dusty  office;  Bobbie  Jones,  the  effeminate 
drug  clerk,  who  wrote  free  verse  and  "movie"  scenarios,  and 
tended  the  sodawater  fountain. 

Claude  was  her  one  hope.  Ever  since  they  graduated  from 
High  School,  all  through  the  four  years  she  had  been  teaching, 
she  had  waited  to  see  him  emerge  and  prove  himself.  She 
wanted  him  to  be  more  successful  than  Bayliss  and  still  be 
Claude.  She  would  have  made  any  sacrifice  to  help  him  on. 
If  a  strong  boy  like  Claude,  so  well  endowed  and  so  fearless, 


One  of  Ours 


must  fail,  simply  because  he  had  that  finer  strain  in  his  nature, 
—  then  life  was  not  worth  the  chagrin  it  held  for  a  passionate 
heart  like  hers. 

At  last  Gladys  threw  herself  upon  the  bed.  If  he  married 
Enid,  that  would  be  the  end.  He  would  go  about  strong  and 
heavy,  like  Mr.  Royce;  a  big  machine  with  the  springs  broken 
inside. 


VII 

CLAUDE  was  well  enough  to  go  into  the  fields  before 
the  harvest  was  over.  The  middle  of  July  came, 
and  the  farmers  were  still  cutting  grain.  The  yield 
of  wheat  and  oats  was  so  heavy  that  there  were  not  machines 
enough  to  thrash  it  within  the  usual  time.  Men  had  to  await 
their  turn,  letting  their  grain  stand  in  shock  until  a  belching 
black  engine  lumbered  into  the  field.  Rains  would  have  been 
disastrous ;  but  this  was  one  of  those  "good  years"  which  farm- 
ers tell  about,  when  everything  goes  well.  At  the  time  they 
needed  rain,  there  was  plenty  of  it;  and  now  the  days  were 
miracles  of  dry,  glittering  heat. 

Every  morning  the  sun  came  up  a  red  ball,  quickly  drank 
the  dew,  and  started  a  quivering  excitement  in  all  living  things. 
In  great  harvest  seasons  like  that  one,  the  heat,  the  intense  light, 
and  the  important  work  in  hand  draw  people  together  and  make 
them  friendly.  Neighbours  helped  each  other  to  cope  with  the 
burdensome  abundance  of  man-nourishing  grain;  women  and 
children  and  old  men  fell  to  and  did  what  they  could  to  save 
and  house  it.  Even  the  horses  had  a  more  varied  and  sociable 
existence  than  usual,  going  about  from  one  farm  to  another  to 
help  neighbour  horses  drag  wagons  and  binders  and  headers. 
They  nosed  the  colts  of  old  friends,  ate  out  of  strange  mangers, 
and  drank,  or  refused  to  drink,  out  of  strange  water-troughs. 
Decrepit  horses  that  lived  on  a  pension,  like  the  Wheelers' 
stiff-legged  Molly  and  Leonard  Dawson's  Billy  with  the  heaves 

—  his  asthmatic  cough  could  be  heard  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile 

—  were  pressed  into  service  now.     It  was  wonderful,  too,  how 

i57 


158  One  of  Ours 


well  these  invalided  beasts  managed  to  keep  up  with  the 
strong  young  mares  and  geldings ;  they  bent  their  willing  heads 
and  pulled  as  if  the  charing  of  the  collar  on  their  necks  was 
sweet  to  them. 

The  sun  was  like  a  great  visiting  presence  that  stimulated 
and  took  its  due  from  all  animal  energy.  When  it  flung  wide 
its  cloak  and  stepped  down  over  the  edge  of  the  fields  at  eve- 
ning, it  left  behind  it  a  spent  and  exhausted  world.  Horses 
and  men  and  women  grew  thin,  seethed  all  day  in  their  own 
sweat.  After  supper  they  dropped  over  and  slept  anywhere 
at  all,  until  the  red  dawn  broke  clear  in  the  east  again,  like 
the  fanfare  of  trumpets,  and  nerves  and  muscles  began  to 
quiver  with  the  solar  heat. 

For  several  weeks  Claude  did  not  have  time  to  read  the 
newspapers;  they  lay  about  the  house  in  bundles,  unopened, 
for  Nat  Wheeler  was  in  the  field  now,  working  like  a  giant. 
Almost  every  evening  Claude  ran  down  to  the  mill  to  see  Enid 
for  a  few  minutes ;  he  did  not  get  out  of  his  car,  and  she  sat 
on  the  old  stile,  left  over  from  horse-back  days,  while  she 
chatted  with  him.  She  said  frankly  that  she  didn't  like  men 
who  had  just  come  out  of  the  harvest  field,  and  Claude  did 
not  blame  her.  He  didn't  like  himself  very  well  after  his 
clothes  began  to  dry  on  him.  But  the  hour  or  two  between 
supper  and  bed  was  the  only  time  he  had  to  see  anybody. 
He  slept  like  the  heroes  of  old;  sank  upon  his  bed  as  the 
thing  he  desired  most  on  earth,  and  for  a  blissful  moment  felt 
the  sweetness  of  sleep  before  it  overpowered  him.  In  the 
morning,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  shriek  of  his  alarm  clock 
for  hours  before  he  could  come  up  from  the  deep  places  into 
which  he  had  plunged.  All  sorts  of  incongruous  adventures 
happened  to  him  between  the  first  buzz  of  the  alarm  and  the 


Enid  159 

moment  when  he  was  enough  awake  to  put  out  his  hand  and 
stop  it.  He  dreamed,  for  instance,  that  it  was  evening,  and 
he  had  gone  to  see  Enid  as  usual.  While  she  was  coming 
down  the  path  from  the  house,  he  discovered  that  he  had  no 
clothes  on  at  all!  Then,  with  wonderful  agility,  he  jumped 
over  the  picket  fence  into  a  clump  of  castor  beans,  and  stood 
in  the  dusk,  trying  to  cover  himself  with  the  leaves,  like  Adam 
in  the  garden,  talking  commonplaces  to  Enid  through  chatter- 
ing teeth,  afraid  lest  at  any  moment  she  might  discover  his 
plight. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  and  Mahailey  always  lost  weight  in  thrashing- 
time,  just  as  the  horses  did;  this  year  Nat  Wheeler  had  six 
hundred  acres  of  winter  wheat  that  would  run  close  upon 
thirty  bushels  to  the  acre.  Such  a  harvest  was  as  hard  on  the 
women  as  it  was  on  the  men.  Leonard  Dawson's  wife,  Susie, 
came  over  to  help  Mrs.  Wheeler,  but  she  was  expecting  a 
baby  in  the  fall,  and  the  heat  proved  too  much  for  her.  Then 
one  of  the  Yoeder  daughters  came ;  but  the  methodical  German 
girl  was  so  distracted  by  Mahailey's  queer  ways  that  Mrs. 
Wheeler  said  it  was  easier  to  do  the  work  herself  than  to  keep 
explaining  Mahailey's  psychology.  Day  after  day  ten  rav- 
enous men  sat  down  at  the  long  dinner  table  in  the  kitchen. 
Mrs.  Wheeler  baked  pies  and  cakes  and  bread  loaves  as  fast 
as  the  oven  would  hold  them,  and  from  morning  till  night  the 
range  was  stoked  like  the  fire-box  of  a  locomotive.  Mahailey 
wrung  the  necks  of  chickens  until  her  wrist  swelled  up,  as  she 
said,  "like  a  puff-adder." 

By  the  end  of  July  the  excitement  quieted  down.  The 
extra  leaves  were  taken  out  of  the  dining  table,  the  Wheeler 
horses  had  their  barn  to  themselves  again,  and  the  reign  of 
terror  in  the  henhouse  was  over. 


160  One  of  Ours 


One  evening  Mr.  Wheeler  came  down  to  supper  with  a 
bundle  of  newspapers  under  his  arm.  "Claude,  I  see  this 
war  scare  in  Europe  has  hit  the  market.  Wheat's  taken  a 
jump.  They're  paying  eighty-eight  cents  in  Chicago.  We 
might  as  well  get  rid  of  a  few  hundred  bushel  before  it  drops 
again.  We'd  better  begin  hauling  tomorrow.  You  and  I  can 
make  two  trips  a  day  over  to  Vicount,  by  changing  teams, — 
there's  no  grade  to  speak  of." 

Mrs.  Wheeler,  arrested  in  the  act  of  pouring  coffee,  sat  hold- 
ing the  coffee-pot  in  the  air,  forgetting  she  had  it.  "If  this 
is  only  a  newspaper  scare,  as  we  think,  I  don't  see  why  it 
should  affect  the  market,"  she  murmured  mildly.  "Surely 
those  big  bankers  in  New  York  and  Boston  have  some  way  of 
knowing  rumour  from  fact." 

"Give  me  some  coffee,  please,"  said  her  husband  testily.  "1 
don't  have  to  explain  the  market,  I've  only  got  to  take  advan- 
tage of  it." 

"But  unless  there's  some  reason,  why  are  we  dragging  our 
wheat  over  to  Vicount?  Do  you  suppose  it's  some  scheme  the 
grain  men  are  hiding  under  a  war  rumour?  Have  the  fin- 
anciers and  the  press  ever  deceived  the  public  like  this  before  ?" 

"I  don't  know  a  thing  in  the  world  about  it,  Evangeline, 
and  I  don't  suppose.  I  telephoned  the  elevator  at  Vicount  an 
hour  ago,  and  they  said  they'd  pay  me  seventy  cents,  subject 
to  change  in  the  morning  quotations.  Claude,"  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  "you'd  better  not  go  to  mill  tonight.  Turn  in  early. 
If  we  are  on  the  road  by  six  tomorrow,  we'll  be  in  town  before 
the  heat  of  the  day." 

"All  right,  sir.  I  want  to  look  at  the  papers  after  supper. 
I  haven't  read  anything  but  the  headlines  since  before  thrash- 
ing. Ernest  was  stirred  up  about  the  murder  of  that  Grand 


Enid  161 

Duke  and  said  the  Austrians  would  make  trouble.  But  I 
never  thought  there  was  anything  in  it." 

"There's  seventy  cents  a  bushel  in  it,  anyway,"  said  his 
father,  reaching  for  a  hot  biscuit. 

"If  there's  that  much,  I'm  somehow  afraid  there  will  be 
more,"  said  Mrs.  Wheeler  thoughtfully.  She  had  picked  up 
the  paper  fly-brush  and  sat  waving  it  irregularly,  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  brush  away  a  swarm  of  confusing  ideas. 

"You  might  call  up  Ernest,  and  ask  him  what  the  Bohemian 
papers  say  about  it,"  Mr.  Wheeler  suggested. 

Claude  went  to  the  telephone,  but  was  unable  to  get  any 
answer  from  the  Havels.  They  had  probably  gone  to  a  barn- 
dance  down  in  the  Bohemian  township.  He  went  upstairs 
and  sat  down  before  an  armchair  full  of  newspapers ;  he 
could  make  nothing  reasonable  out  of  the  smeary  telegrams 
in  big  type  on  the  front  page  of  the  Omaha  World  Herald. 
The  German  army  was  entering  Luxembourg;  he  didn't  know 
where  Luxembourg  was,  whether  it  was  a  city  or  a  country;  he 
seemed  to  have  some  vague  idea  that  it  was  a  palace!  His 
mother  had  gone  up  to  "Mahailey's  library,"  the  attic,  to  hunt 
for  a  map  of  Europe, —  a  thing  for  which  Nebraska  farmers 
had  never  had  much  need.  But  that  night,  on  many  prairie 
homesteads,  the  women,  American  and  foreign-born,  were  hunt- 
ing for  a  map. 

Claude  was  so  sleepy  that  he  did  not  wait  for  his  mother's 
return.  He  stumbled  upstairs  and  undressed  in  the  dark.  The 
night  was  sultry,  with  thunder  clouds  in  the  sky  and  an  unceas- 
ing play  of  sheet-lightning  all  along  the  western  horizon. 
Mosquitoes  had  got  into  his  room  during  the  day,  and  after  he 
threw  himself  upon  the  bed  they  began  sailing  over  him  with 
their  high,  excruciating  note.  He  turned  from  side  to  side 


162  One  of  Ours 


and  tried  to  muffle  his  ears  with  the  pillow.  The  disquieting 
sound  became  merged,  in  his  sleepy  brain,  with  the  big  type  on 
the  front  page  of  the  paper;  those  black  letters  seemed  to  be 
flying  about  his  head  with  a  soft,  high,  sing-song  whizz. 


VIII 

"IT  ATE  in  the  afternoon  of  the  sixth  of  August,  Claude 
and  his  empty  wagon  were  bumping  along  the  level 
•>  <*•  road  over  the  flat  country  between  Vicount  and  the 
Lovely  Creek  valley.  He  had  made  two  trips  to  town  that 
day.  Though  he  had  kept  his  heaviest  team  for  the  hot  after- 
noon pull,  his  horses  were  too  tired  to  be  urged  off  a  walk. 
Their  necks  were  marbled  with  sweat  stains,  and  their  flanks 
were  plastered  with  the  white  dust  that  rose  at  every  step. 
Their  heads  hung  down,  and  their  breathing  was  deep  and 
slow.  The  wood  of  the  green-painted  wagon  seat  was  blister- 
ing hot  to  the  touch.  Claude  sat  at  one  end  of  it,  his  head 
bared  to  catch  the  faint  stir  of  air  that  sometimes  dried  his 
neck  and  chin  and  saved  him  the  trouble  of  pulling  out  a 
handkerchief.  On  every  side  the  wheat  stubble  stretched  for 
miles  and  miles.  Lonely  straw  stacks  stood  up  yellow  in  the 
sun  and  cast  long  shadows.  Claude  peered  anxiously  along 
the  distant  locust  hedges  which  told  where  the  road  ran. 
Ernest  Havel  had  promised  to  meet  him  somewhere  on  the 
way  home.  He  had  not  seen  Ernest  for  a  week :  since  then 
Time  had  brought  prodigies  to  birth. 

At  last  he  recognized  the  Havel's  team  a  long  way  off,  and 
he  stopped  and  waited  for  Ernest  beside  a  thorny  hedge,  look- 
ing thoughtfully  about  him.  The  sun  was  already  low.  It 
hung  above  the  stubble,  all  milky  and  rosy  with  the  heat,  like 
the  image  of  a  sun  reflected  in  grey  water.  In  the  east  the  full 
moon  had  just  risen,  and  its  thin  silver  surface  was  flushed 

163 


164  One  of  Ours 


with  pink  until  it  looked  exactly  like  the  setting  sun.  Except 
for  the  place  each  occupied  in  the  heavens,  Claude  could  not 
have  told  which  was  which.  They  rested  upon  opposite  rims 
of  the  world,  two  bright  shields,  and  regarded  each  other, — 
as  if  they,  too,  had  met  by  appointment. 

Claude  and  Ernest  sprang  to  the  ground  at  the  same  instant 
and  shook  hands,  feeling  that  they  had  not  seen  each  other 
for  a  long  while. 

"Well,  what  do  you  make  of  it,  Ernest?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  cautiously,  but  replied  no 
further.  He  patted  his  horses  and  eased  the  collars  on  their 
necks. 

"I  waited  in  town  for  the  Hastings  paper,"  Claude  went  on 
impatiently.  "England  declared  war  last  night." 

"The  Germans,"  said  Ernest,  "are  at  Liege.  I  know  where 
that  is.  I  sailed  from  Antwerp  when  I  came  over  here." 

"Yes,  I  saw  that.     Can  the  Belgians  do  anything?" 

"Nothing."  Ernest  leaned  against  the  wagon  wheel  and 
drawing  his  pipe  from  his  pocket  slowly  filled  it.  "Nobody 
can  do  anything.  The  German  army  will  go  where  it  pleases." 

"If  it's  as  bad  as  that,  why  are  the  Belgians  putting  up  a 
fight?" 

"I  don't  know.  It's  fine,  but  it  will  come  to  nothing  in  the 
end.  Let  me  tell  you  something  about  the  German  army, 
Claude." 

Pacing  up  and  down  beside  the  locust  hedge,  Ernest  re- 
hearsed the  great  argument ;  preparation,  organization,  concen- 
tration, inexhaustible  resources,  inexhaustible  men.  While  he 
talked  the  sun  disappeared,  the  moon  contracted,  solidified, 
and  slowly  climbed  the  pale  sky.  The  fields  were  still  glim- 
mering with  the  bland  reflection  left  over  from  daylight,  and 


Enid  165 

the  distance  grew  shadowy, —  not  dark,  but  seemingly  full  of 
sleep. 

"If  I  were  at  home,"  Ernest  concluded,,  "I  would  be  in  the 
Austrian  army  this  minute.  I  guess  all  my  cousins  and 
nephews  are  fighting  the  Russians  or  the  Belgians  already. 
How  would  you  like  it  yourself,  to  be  marched  into  a  peaceful 
country  like  this,  in  the  middle  of  harvest,  and  begin  to  destroy 
it?" 

"I  wouldn't  do  it,  of  course.     I'd  desert  and  be  shot." 

"Then  your  family  would  be  persecuted.  Your  brothers, 
maybe  even  your  father,  would  be  made  orderlies  to  Austrian 
officers  and  be  kicked  in  the  mouth." 

"I  wouldn't  bother  about  that.  I'd  let  my  male  relatives 
decide  for  themselves  how  often  they  would  be  kicked." 

Ernest  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  Americans  brag  like 
little  boys ;  you  would  and  you  wouldn't !  I  tell  you,  nobody's 
will  has  anything  to  do  with  this.  It  is  the  harvest  of  all 
that  has  been  planted.  I  never  thought  it  would  come  in  my 
life-time,  but  I  knew  it  would  come." 

The  boys  lingered  a  little  while,  looking  up  at  the  soft 
radiance  of  the  sky.  There  was  not  a  cloud  anywhere,  and 
the  low  glimmer  in  the  fields  had  imperceptibly  changed  to 
full,  pure  moonlight.  Presently  the  two  wagons  began  to 
creep  along  the  white  road,  and  on  the  backless  seat  of  each 
the  driver  sat  drooping  forward,  lost  in  thought.  When  they 
reached  the  corner  where  Ernest  turned  south,  they  said  good- 
night without  raising  their  voices.  Claude's  horses  went  on 
as  if  they  were  walking  in  their  sleep.  They  did  not  even 
sneeze  at  the  low  cloud  of  dust  beaten  up  by  their  heavy 
foot- falls, —  the  only  sounds  in  the  vast  quiet  of  the  night. 

Why  was  Ernest  so  impatient  with  him,  Claude  wondered? 


166  One  of  Ours 


He  could  not  pretend  to  feel  as  Ernest  did.  He  had  nothing 
behind  him  to  shape  his  opinions  or  colour  his  feelings  about 
what  was  going  on  in  Europe;  he  could  only  sense  it  day  by 
day.  He  had  always  been  taught  that  the  German  people  were 
pre-eminent  in  the  virtues  Americans  most  admire;  a  month 
ago  he  would  have  said  they  had  all  the  ideals  a  decent 
American  boy  would  fight  for.  The  invasion  of  Belgium  was 
contradictory  to  the  German  character  as  he  knew  it  in  his 
friends  and  neighbours.  He  still  cherished  the  hope  that  there 
had  been  some  great  mistake;  that  this  splendid  people  would 
apologize  and  right  itself  with  the  world. 

Mr.  Wheeler  came  down  the  hill,  bareheaded  and  coatless, 
as  Claude  drove  into  the  barnyard.  "I  expect  you're  tired. 
I'll  put  your  team  away.  Any  news?" 

"England  has  declared  war." 

Mr.  Wheeler  stood  still  a  moment  and  scratched  his  head. 
"I  guess  you  needn't  get  up  early  tomorrow.  If  this  is  to  be 
a  sure  enough  war,  wheat  will  go  higher.  I've  thought  it  was 
a  bluff  until  now.  You  take  the  papers  up  to  your  mother." 


IX 

ENID  and  Mrs.  Royce  had  gone  away  to  the  Michigan 
sanatorium  where  they  spent  part  of  every  summer, 
and   would  not  be   back   until   October.     Claude  and 
his   mother  gave  all   their  attention   to  the   war   despatches. 
Day  after  day,  through  the  first  two  weeks  of  August,  the 
bewildering  news  trickled  from  the  little  towns  out  into  the 
farming  country. 

About  the  middle  of  the  month  came  the  story  of  the  fall 
of  the  forts  at  Liege,  battered  at  for  nine  days  and  finally 
reduced  in  a  few  hours  by  siege  guns  brought  up  from  the 
rear, —  guns  which  evidently  could  destroy  any  fortifications 
that  ever  had  been,  or  ever  could  be  constructed.  Even  to 
these  quiet  wheat-growing  people,  the  siege  guns  before  Liege 
were  a  menace ;  not  to  their  safety  or  their  goods,  but  to  their 
comfortable,  established  way  of  thinking.  They  introduced  the 
greater- than-man  force  which  afterward  repeatedly  brought  in- 
to this  war  the  effect  of  unforseeable  natural  disaster,  like 
tidal  waves,  earthquakes,  or  the  eruption  of  volcanoes. 

On  the  twenty-third  came  the  news  of  the  fall  of  the  forts 
at  Namur ;  again  giving  warning  that  an  unprecedented  power 
of  destruction  had  broken  loose  in  the  world.  A  few  days  later 
the  story  of  the  wiping  out  of  the  ancient  and  peaceful  seat  of 
learning  at  Louvain  made  it  clear  that  this  force  was  being 
directed  toward  incredible  ends.  By  this  time,  too,  the  papers 
were  full  of  accounts  of  the  destruction  of  civilian  populations. 
Something  new,  and  certainly  evil,  was  at  work  among 
mankind.  Nobody  was  ready  with  a  name  for  it.  None  of 

167 


168  One  of  Ours 


the  well-worn  words  descriptive  of  human  behaviour  seemed 
adequate.  The  epithets  grouped  about  the  name  of  "Attila" 
were  too  personal,  too  dramatic,  too  full  of  old,  familiar 
human  passion. 

One  afternoon  in  the  first  week  of  September  Mrs.  Wheeler 
was  in  the  kitchen  making  cucumber  pickles,  when  she  heard 
Claude's  car  coming  back  from  Frankfort.  In  a  moment  he 
entered,  letting  the  screen  door  slam  behind  him,  and  threw  a 
bundle  of  mail  on  the  table. 

"What  do  you  think,  Mother?  The  French  have  moved  the 
seat  of  government  to  Bordeaux!  Evidently,  they  don't  think 
they  can  hold  Paris." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  wiped  her  pale,  perspiring  face  with  the  hem 
of  her  apron  and  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair.  "You  mean 
that  Paris  is  not  the  capital  of  France  any  more?  Can  that 
be  true?" 

"That's  what  it  looks  like.  Though  the  papers  say  it's  only 
a  precautionary  measure." 

She  rose.  "Let's  go  up  to  the  map.  I  don't  remember 
exactly  where  Bordeaux  is.  Mahailey,  you  won't  let  my 
vinegar  burn,  will  you  ?" 

Claude  followed  her  to  the  sitting-room,  where  her  new 
map  hung  on  the  wall  above  the  carpet  lounge.  Leaning 
against  the  back  of  a  willow  rocking-chair,  she  began  to  move 
her  hand  about  over  the  brightly  coloured,  shiny  surface, 
murmuring,  "Yes,  there  is  Bordeaux,  so  far  to  the  south ;  and 
there  is  Paris." 

Claude,  behind  her,  looked  over  her  shoulder.  "Do  you 
suppose  they  are  going  to  hand  their  city  over  to  the  Germans, 
like  a  Christmas  present?  I  should  think  they'd  burn  it  first, 


Enid  169 

the  way  the  Russians  did  Moscow.  They  can  do  better  than 
that  now,  they  can  dynamite  it!" 

"Don't  say  such  things."  Mrs.  Wheeler  dropped  into  the 
deep  willow  chair,  realizing  that  she  was  very  tired,  now  that 
she  had  left  the  stove  and  the  heat  of  the  kitchen.  She  began 
weakly  to  wave  the  palm  leaf  fan  before  her  face.  "It's  said 
to  be  such  a  beautiful  city.  Perhaps  the  Germans  will  spare 
it,  as  they  did  Brussels.  They  must  be  sick  of  destruction 
by  now.  Get  the  encyclopaedia  and  see  what  it  says.  I've 
left  my  glasses  downstairs." 

Claude  brought  a  volume  from  the  bookcase  and  sat 
down  on  the  lounge.  He  began:  "Paris,  the  capital  city  of 
France  and  the  Department  of  the  Seine, —  Shall  I  skip  the 
history  ?" 

"No.     Read  it  all." 

He  cleared  his  throat  and  began  again:  "At  its  first  appear- 
ance in  history,  there  was  nothing  to  foreshadow  the  impor- 
tant part  which  Paris  was  to  play  in  Europe  and  in  the 
world,"  etc. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  rocked  and  fanned,  forgetting  the  kitchen 
and  the  cucumbers  as  if  they  had  never  been.  Her  tired  body 
was  resting,  and  her  mind,  which  was  never  tired,  was  occupied 
with  the  account  of  early  religious  foundations  under  the 
Merovingian  kings.  Her  eyes  were  always  agreeably  employed 
when  they  rested  upon  the  sunburned  neck  and  catapult  shoul- 
ders of  her  red-headed  son. 

Claude  read  faster  and  faster  until  he  stopped  with  a  gasp. 

"Mother,  there  are  pages  of  kings!  We'll  read  that  some 
other  time.  I  want  to  find  out  what  it's  like  now,  and  whether 
it's  going  to  have  any  more  history."  He  ran  his  finger  up 


170  One  of  Ours 


and  down  the  columns.  "Here,  this  looks  like  business. 
Defences:  Paris,  in  a  recent  German  account  of  the  greatest 
fortresses  of  the  world,  possesses  three  distinct  rings  of 
defences" —  here  he  broke  off.  "Now  what  do  you  .think  of 
that  ?  A  German  account,  and  this  is  an  English  book !  The 
world  simply  made  a  mistake  about  the  Germans  all  along. 
It's  as  if  we  invited  a  neighbour  over  here  and  showed 
him  our  cattle  and  barns,  and  all  the  time  he  was  plan- 
ning how  he  would  come  at  night  and  club  us  in  our 
beds." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  passed  her  hand  over  her  brow.  "Yet  we 
have  had  so  many  German  neighbours,  and  never  one  that 
wasn't  kind  and  helpful." 

"I  know  it.  Everything  Mrs.  Erlich  ever  told  me  about 
Germany  made  me  want  to  go  there.  And  the  people  that 
sing  all  those  beautiful  songs  about  women  and  children  went 
into  Belgian  villages  and — " 

"Don't,  Claude !"  his  mother  put  out  her  hands  as  if  to  push 
his  words  back.  "Read  about  the  defences  of  Paris;  that's 
what  we  must  think  about  now.  I  can't  but  believe  there  is 
one  fort  the  Germans  didn't  put  down  in  their  book,  and  that 
it  will  stand.  We  know  Paris  is  a  wicked  city,  but  there  must 
be  many  God-fearing  people  there,  and  God  has  preserved  it 
all  these  years.  You  saw  in  the  paper  how  the  churches  are 
full  all  day  of  women  praying."  She  leaned  forward  and 
smiled  at  him  indulgently.  "And  you  believe  those  prayers 
will  accomplish  nothing,  son?" 

Claude  squirmed,  as  he  always  did  when  his  mother  touched 
upon  certain  subjects.  "Well,  you  see,  I  can't  forget  that  the 
Germans  are  praying,  too.  And  I  guess  they  are  just  naturally 
more  pious  than  the  French."  Taking  up  the  book  he  began 


Enid  171 

once  more:     "In  the  low  ground  again,  at  the  narrowest  part 
of  the  great  loop  of  the  Marnef  etc. 

Claude  and  his  mother  had  grown  familiar  with  the  name 
of  that  river,  and  with  the  idea  of  its  strategic  importance, 
before  it  began  to  stand  out  in  black  headlines  a  few  days 
later. 

The  fall  ploughing  had  begun  as  usual.  Mr.  Wheeler  had 
decided  to  put  in  six  hundred  acres  of  wheat  again.  What- 
ever happened  on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  they  would 
need  bread.  He  took  a  third  team  himself  and  went  into  the 
field  every  morning  to  help  Dan  and  Claude.  The  neighbours 
said  that  nobody  but  the  'Kaiser  had  ever  been  able  to  get 
Nat  Wheeler  down  to  regular  work. 

Since  the  men  were  all  afield,  Mrs.  Wheeler  now  went 
every  morning  to  the  mailbox  at  the  crossroads,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  to  get  yesterday's  Omaha  and  Kansas  City  papers 
which  the  carrier  left.  In  her  eagerness  she  opened  and  began 
to  read  them  as  she  turned  homeward,  and  her  feet,  never  too 
sure,  took  a  wandering  way  among  sunflowers  and  buffalo- 
burrs.  One  morning,  indeed,  she  sat  down  on  a  red  grass 
bank  beside  the  road  and  read  all  the  war  news  through  before 
she  stirred,  while  the  grasshoppers  played  leap-frog  over  her 
skirts,  and  the  gophers  came  out  of  their  holes  and  blinked  at 
her.  That  noon,  when  she  saw  Claude  leading  his  team  to 
the  water  tank,  she  hurried  down  to  him  without  stopping  to 
find  her  bonnet,  and  reached  the  windmill  breathless. 

"The  French  have  stopped  falling  back,  Claude.  They  are 
standing  at  the  Marne.  There  is  a  great  battle  going  on.  The 
papers  say  it  may  decide  the  war.  It  is  so  near  Paris  that 
some  of  the  army  went  out  in  taxi-cabs." 


172  One  of  Ours 


Claude  drew  himself  up.  "Well,  it  will  decide  about  Paris, 
anyway,  won't  it?  How  many  divisions?" 

"I  can't  make  out.  The  accounts  are  so  confusing.  But 
only  a  few  of  the  English  are  there,  and  the  French  are 
terribly  outnumbered.  Your  father  got  in  before  you,  and 
he  has  the  papers  upstairs." 

"They  are  twenty-four  hours  old.  I'll  go  to  Vicount  tonight 
after  I'm  done  work,  and  get  the  Hastings  paper." 

In  the  evening,  when  he  came  back  from  town,  he  found 
his  father  and  mother  waiting  up  for  him.  He  stopped  a 
moment  in  the  sitting-room.  "There  is  not  much  news,  except 
that  the  battle  is  on,  and  practically  the  whole  French  army  is 
engaged.  The  Germans  outnumber  them  five  to  three  in 
men,  and  nobody  knows  how  much  in  artillery.  General  Joffre 
says  the  French  will  fall  back  no  farther."  He  did  not  sit 
down,  but  went  straight  upstairs  to  his  room. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  put  out  the  lamp,  undressed,  and  lay  down, 
but  not  to  sleep.  Long  afterward,  Claude  heard  her  gently 
closing  a  window,  and  he  smiled  to  himself  in  the  dark.  His 
mother,  he  knew,  had  always  thought  of  Paris  as  the  wicked- 
est of  cities,  the  capital  of  a  frivolous,  wine-drinking,  Catholic 
people,  who  were  responsible  for  the  massacre  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew and  for  the  grinning  atheist,  Voltaire.  For  the 
last  two  weeks,  ever  since  the  French  began  to  fall  back  in 
Lorraine,  he  had  noticed  with  amusement  her  growing  solic- 
itude for  Paris. 

It  was  curious,  he  reflected,  lying  wide  awake  in  the  dark: 
four  days  ago  the  seat  of  government  had  been  moved  to 
Bordeaux, —  with  the  effect  that  Paris  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  become  the  capital,  not  of  France,  but  of  the  world ! 
He  knew  he  was  not  the  only  farmer  boy  who  wished  himself 


Enid  173 

tonight  beside  the  Marne.  The  fact  that  the  river  had  a  pro- 
nounceable name,  with  a  hard  Western  "r"  standing  like  a  key- 
stone in  the  middle  of  it,  somehow  gave  one's  imagination  a 
firmer  hold  on  the  situation.  Lying  still  and  thinking  fast, 
Claude  felt  that  even  he  could  clear  the  bar  of  French  "polite- 
ness"—  so  much  more  terrifying  than  German  bullets  —  and 
slip  unnoticed  into  that  outnumbered  army.  One's  manners 
wouldn't  matter  on  the  Marne  tonight,  the  night  of  the  eighth 
of  September,  1914.  There  was  nothing  on  earth  he  would  so 
gladly  be  as  an  atom  in  that  wall  of  flesh  and  blood  that  rose 
and  melted  and  rose  again  before  the  city  which  had  meant 
so  much  through  all  the  centuries  —  but  had  never  meant  so 
much  before.  Its  name  had  come  to  have  the  purity  of  an 
abstract  idea.  In  great  sleepy  continents,  in  land-locked 
harvest  towns,  in  the  little  islands  of  the  sea,  for  four  days 
men  watched  that  name  as  they  might  stand  out  at  night  to 
watch  a  comet,  or  to  see  a  star  fall. 


IT  was  Sunday  afternoon  and  Claude  had  gone  down  to 
the  mill   house,  as  Enid  and  her   mother  had  returned 
from  Michigan  the  day  before.     Mrs.  Wheeler,  propped 
back  in  a  rocking  chair,  was  reading,  and  Mr.  Wheeler,  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  his  Sunday  collar  unbuttoned,  was  sitting  at  his 
walnut  secretary,  amusing  himself  with  columns  of   figures. 
Presently  he  rose  and  yawned,  stretching  his  arms  above  his 
head. 

"Claude  thinks  he  wants  to  begin  building  right  away,  up 
on  the  quarter  next  the  timber  claim.  I've  been  figuring  on 
the  lumber.  Building  materials  are  cheap  just  now,  so  I 
suppose  I'd  better  let  him  go  ahead." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  looked  up  absently  from  the  page.  "Why, 
I  suppose  so." 

Her  husband  sat  down  astride  a  chair,  and  leaning  his  arms 
on  the  back  of  it,  looked  at  her.  "What  do  you  think  of  this 
match,  anyway?  I  don't  know  as  I've  heard  you  say." 

"Enid  is  a  good,  Christian  girl.  .  ."  Mrs.  Wheeler  began 
resolutely,  but  her  sentence  hung  in  the  air  like  a 
question. 

He  moved  impatiently.  "Yes,  I  know.  But  what  does  a 
husky  boy  like  Claude  want  to  pick  out  a  girl  like  that  for? 
Why,  Evangeline,  she'll  be  the  old  woman  over  again!" 

Apparently  these  misgivings  were  not  new  to  Mrs.  Wheeler, 
for  she  put  out  her  hand  to  stop  him  and  whispered  in  solemn 
agitation,  "Don't  say  anything!  Don't  breathe !" 

"Oh,  I  won't  interfere!     I  never  do.     I'd  rather  have  her 

174 


Enid  175 

for  a  daughter-in-law  than  a  wife,  by  a  long  shot.  Claude's 
more  of  a  fool  than  I  thought  him."  He  picked  up  his  hat 
and  strolled  down  to  the  barn,  but  his  wife  did  not  recover 
her  composure  so  easily.  She  left  the  chair  where  she  had 
hopefully  settled  herself  for  comfort,  took  up  a  feather  duster 
and  began  moving  distractedly  about  the  room,  brushing  the 
surface  of  the  furniture.  When  the  war  news  was  bad,  or 
when  she  felt  troubled  about  Claude,  she  set  to  cleaning  house 
or  overhauling  the  closets,  thankful  to  be  able  to  put  some 
little  thing  to  rights  in  such  a  disordered  world. 

As  soon  as  the  fall  planting  was  done,  Claude  got  the  well- 
borers  out  from  town  to  drill  his  new  well,  and  while  they 
were  at  work  he  began  digging  his  cellar.  He  was  building 
his  house  on  the  level  stretch  beside  his  father's  timber  claim 
because,  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  he  had  thought  that  grove 
of  trees  the  most  beautiful  spot  in  the  world.  It  was  a 
square  of  about  thirty  acres,  set  out  in  ash  and  box-elder  and 
cotton-woods,  with  a  thick  mulberry  hedge  on  the  south 
side.  The  trees  had  been  neglected  of  late  years,  but  if  he 
lived  up  there  he  could  manage  to  trim  them  and  care  for 
them  at  odd  moments. 

Every  morning  now  he  ran  up  in  the  Ford  and  worked  at 
his  cellar.  He  had  heard  that  the  deeper  a  cellar  was,  the 
better  it  was;  and  he  meant  that  this  one  should  be  deep 
enough.  One  day  Leonard  Dawson  stopped  to  see  what  prog- 
ress he  was  making.  Standing  on  the  edge  of  the  hole,  he 
shouted  to  the  lad  who  was  sweating  below. 

"My  God,  Claude,  what  do  you  want  of  a  cellar  as  deep 
as  that?  When  your  wife  takes  a  notion  to  go  to  China,  you 
can  open  a  trap-door  and  drop  her  through!" 

Claude  flung  down  his  pick  and  ran  up  the  ladder.     "Enid's 


176  One  of  Ours 


not  going  to  have  notions  of  that  sort,"  he  said  wrathfully. 

"Well,  you  needn't  get  mad.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I  was 
sorry  when  the  other  girl  went.  It  always  looked  to  me  like 
Enid  had  her  face  set  for  China,  but  I  haven't  seen  her  for 
a  good  while, —  not  since  before  she  went  of!  to  Michigan  with 
the  old  lady." 

After  Leonard  was  gone,  Claude  returned  to  his  work,  still 
out  of  humour.  He  was  not  altogether  happy  in  his  mind 
about  Enid.  When  he  went  down  to  the  mill  it  was  usually 
Mr.  Royce,  not  Enid,  who  sought  to  detain  him,  followed  him 
down  the  path  to  the  gate  and  seemed  sorry  to  see  him  go. 
He  could  not  blame  Enid  with  any  lack  of  interest  in  what 
he  was  doing.  She  talked  and  thought  of  nothing  but  the 
new  house,  and  most  of  her  suggestions  were  good.  He  often 
wished  she  would  ask  for  something  unreasonable  and  extrav- 
agant. But  she  had  no  selfish  whims,  and  even  insisted  that 
the  comfortable  upstairs  sleeping  room  he  had  planned  with 
such  care  should  be  reserved  for  a  guest  chamber. 

As  the  house  began  to  take  shape,  Enid  came  up  often  in 
her  car,  to  watch  its  growth,  to  show  Claude  samples  of  wall- 
papers and  draperies,  or  a  design  for  a  window-seat  she  had 
cut  from  some  magazine.  There  could  be  no  question  of  her 
pride  in  every  detail.  The  disappointing  thing  was  that  she 
seemed  more  interested  in  the  house  than  in  him.  These 
months  when  they  could  be  together  as  much  as  they  pleased, 
she  treated  merely  as  a  period  of  time  in  which  they  were 
building  a  house. 

Everything  would  be  all  right  when  they  were  married, 
Claude  told  himself.  He  believed  in  the  transforming  power 
of  marriage,  as  his  mother  believed  in  the  miraculous  effects 
of  conversion.  Marriage  reduced  all  women  to  a  common 


Enid  177 

denominator;  changed  a  cool,  self-satisfied  girl  into  a  loving 
and  generous  one.  It  was  quite  right  that  Enid  should  be 
unconscious  now  of  everything  that  she  was  to  be  when  she  was 
his  wife.  He  told  himself  he  wouldn't  want  it  otherwise. 

But  he  was  lonely,  all  the  same.  He  lavished  upon  the  little 
house  the  solicitude  and  cherishing  care  that  Enid  seemed  not 
to  need.  He  stood  over  the  carpenters  urging  the  greatest 
nicety  in  the  finish  of  closets  and  cupboards,  the  convenient 
placing  of  shelves,  the  exact  joining  of  sills  and  casings. 
Often  he  stayed  late  in  the  evening,  after  the  workmen  with 
their  noisy  boots  had  gone  home  to  supper.  He  sat  down  on 
a  rafter  or  on  the  skeleton  of  the  upper  porch  and  quite  lost 
himself  in  brooding,  in  anticipation  of  things  that  seemed  as 
far  away  as  ever.  The  dying  light,  the  quiet  stars  coming  out, 
were  friendly  and  sympathetic.  One  night  a  bird  flew  in  and 
fluttered  wildly  about  among  the  partitions,  shrieking  with 
fright  before  it  darted  out  into  the  dusk  through  one  of  the 
upper  windows  and  found  its  way  to  freedom. 

When  the  carpenters  were  ready  to  put  in  the  staircase, 
Claude  telephoned  Enid  and  asked  her  to  come  and  show 
them  just  what  height  she  wanted  the  steps  made.  His  mother 
had  always  had  to  climb  stairs  that  were  too  steep.  Enid 
stopped  her  car  at  the  Frankfort  High  School  at  four  o'clock 
and  persuaded  Gladys  Farmer  to  drive  out  with  her. 

When  they  arrived  they  found  Claude  working  on  the  lattice 
enclosure  of  the  back  porch.  "Claude  is  like  Jonah,"  Enid 
laughed.  "He  wants  to  plant  gourd  vines  here,  so  they  will 
run  over  the  lattice  and  make  shade.  I  can  think  of  other 
vines  that  might  be  more  ornamental." 

Claude  put  down  his  hammer  and  said  coaxingly:  "Have 
you  ever  seen  a  gourd  vine  when  it  had  something  to  climb 


178  One  of  Ours 


on,  Enid  ?  You  wouldn't  believe  how  pretty  they  are ;  big 
green  leaves,  and  gourds  and  yellow  blossoms  hanging  all  over 
them  at  the  same  time.  An  old  German  woman  who  keeps 
a  lunch  counter  at  one  of  those  stations  on  the  road  to  Lincoln 
has  them  running  up  her  back  porch,  and  I've  wanted  to  plant 
some  ever  since  I  first  saw  hers." 

Enid  smiled  indulgently.  "Well,  I  suppose  you'll  let  me 
have  clematis  for  the  front  porch,  anyway?  The  men  are 
getting  ready  to  leave,  so  we'd  better  see  about  the  steps." 

After  the  workmen  had  gone,  Claude  took  the  girls  upstairs 
by  the  ladder.  They  emerged  from  a  little  entry  into  a  large 
room  which  extended  over  both  the  front  and  back  parlours. 
The  carpenters  called  it  "the  pool  hall."  There  were  two  long 
windows,  like  doors,  opening  upon  the  porch  roof,  and  in  the 
sloping  ceiling  were  two  dormer  windows,  one  looking  north 
to  the  timber  claim  and  the  other  south  toward  Lovely  Creek. 
Gladys  at  once  felt  a  singular  pleasantness  about  this  chamber, 
empty  and  unplastered  as  it  was.  "What  a  lovely  room !"  she 
exclaimed. 

Claude  took  her  up  eagerly.  "Don't  you  think  so?  You 
see  it's  my  idea  to  have  the  second  floor  for  ourselves,  instead 
of  cutting  it  up  into  little  boxes  as  people  usually  do.  We  can 
come  up  here  and  forget  the  farm  and  the  kitchen  and  all  our 
troubles.  I've  made  a  big  closet  for  each  of  us,  and  got  every- 
thing just  right.  And  now  Enid  wants  to  keep  this  room  for 
preachers !" 

Enid  laughed.  "Not  only  for  preachers,  Claude.  For 
Gladys,  when  she  comes  to  visit  us  —  you  see  she  likes  it  —  and 
for  your  mother  when  she  comes  to  spend  a  week  and  rest. 
I  don't  think  we  ought  to  take  the  best  room  for  ourselves." 

"Why  not?"  Claude  argued  hotly.     "I'm  building  the  whole 


Enid  179 

house  for  ourselves.  Come  out  on  the  porch  roof,  Gladys. 
Isn't  this  fine  for  hot  nights?  I  want  to  put  a  railing  round 
and  make  this  into  a  balcony,  where  we  can  have  chairs  and  a 
hammock." 

Gladys  sat  down  on  the  low  window-sill.  "Enid,  you'd  be 
foolish  to  keep  this  for  a  guest  room.  Nobody  would  ever 
enjoy  it  as  much  as  you  would.  You  can  see  the  whole  country 
from  here." 

Enid  smiled,  but  showed  no  sign  of  relenting.  "Let's  wait 
and  watch  the  sun  go  down.  Be  careful,  Claude.  It  makes 
me  nervous  to  see  you  lying  there." 

He  was  stretched  out  on  the  edge  of  the  roof,  one  leg  hang- 
ing over,  and  his  head  pillowed  on  his  arm.  The  flat  fields 
turned  red,  the  distant  windmills  flashed  white,  and  little  rosy 
clouds  appeared  in  the  sky  above  them. 

"If  I  make  this  into  a  balcony,"  Claude  murmured,  "the 
peak  of  the  roof  will  always  throw  a  shadow  over  it  in  the 
afternoon,  and  at  night  the  stars  will  be  right  overhead.  It 
will  be  a  fine  place  to  sleep  in  harvest  time." 

"Oh,  you  could  always  come  up  here  to  sleep  on  a  hot 
night,"  Enid  said  quickly. 

"It  wouldn't  be  the  same." 

They  sat  watching  the  light  die  out  of  the  sky,  and  Enid  and 
Gladys  drew  close  together  as  the  coolness  of  the  autumn 
evening  came  on.  The  three  friends  were  thinking  about  the 
same  thing;  and  yet,  if  by  some  sorcery  each  had  begun  to 
speak  his  thoughts  aloud,  amazement  and  bitterness  would  have 
fallen  upon  all.  Enid's  reflections  were  the  most  blameless. 
The  discussion  about  the  guest  room  had  reminded  her  of 
Brother  Weldon.  In  September,  on  her  way  to  Michigan  with 
Mrs.  Royce,  she  had  stopped  for  a  day  in  Lincoln  to  take 


80  One  of  Ours 


counsel  with  Arthur  Weldon  as  to  whether  she  ought  to  marry 
one  whom  she  described  to  him  as  "an  unsaved  man."  Young 
Mr.  Weldon  approached  this  subject  with  a  cautious  tread,  but 
when  he  learned  that  the  man  in  question  was  Claude  Wheeler, 
he  became  more  partisan  than  was  his  wont.  He  seemed  to 
think  that  her  marrying  Claude  was  the  one  way  to  reclaim 
him,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  most  important 
service  devout  girls  could  perform  for  the  church  was  to  bring 
promising  young  men  to  its  support.  Enid  had  been  almost 
certain  that  Mr. Weldon  would  approve  her  course  before  she 
consulted  him,  but  his  concurrence  always  gratified  her  pride. 
She  told  him  that  when  she  had  a  home  of  her  own  she  would 
expect  him  to  spend  a  part  of  his  summer  vacation  there,  and 
he  blushingly  expressed  his  willingness  to  do  so. 

Gladys,  too,  was  lost  in  her  own  thoughts,  sitting  with  that 
ease  which  made  her  seem  rather  indolent,  her  head  resting 
against  the  empty  window  frame,  facing  the  setting  sun.  The 
rosy  light  made  her  brown  eyes  gleam  like  old  copper,  and 
there  was  a  moody  look  in  them,  as  if  in  her  mind  she  were 
defying  something.  When  he  happened  to  glance  at  her,  it 
occurred  to  Claude  that  it  was  a  hard  destiny  to  be  the  excep- 
tional person  in  a  community,  to  be  more  gifted  or  more  intelli- 
gent than  the  rest.  For  a  girl  it  must  be  doubly  hard.  He 
sat  up  suddenly  and  broke  the  long  silence. 

"I  forgot,  Enid,  I  have  a  secret  to  tell  you.  Over  in  the 
timber  claim  the  other  day  I  started  up  a  flock  of  quail.  They 
must  be  the  only  ones  left  in  all  this  neighbourhood,  and  I  doubt 
if  they  ever  come  out  of  the  timber.  The  bluegrass  hasn't  been 
mowed  in  there  for  years, —  not  since  I  first  went  away  to 
school, —  and  maybe  they  live  on  the  grass  seeds.  In  summer, 
of  course,  there  are  mulberries." 


Enid  181 

Enid  wondered  whether  the  birds  could  have  learned  enough 
about  the  world  to  stay  hidden  in  the  timber  lot.  Claude  was 
sure  they  had. 

"Nobody  ever  goes  near  the  place  except  Father;  he  stops 
there  sometimes.  Maybe  he  has  seen  them  and  never  said  a 
word.  It  would  be  just  like  him."  He  told  them  he  had 
scattered  shelled  corn  in  the  grass,  so  that  the  birds  would  not 
be  tempted  to  fly  over  into  Leonard  Dawson's  cornfield.  "If 
Leonard  saw  them,  he'd  likely  take  a  shot  at  them." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  him  not  to?"  Enid  suggested. 

Claude  laughed.  "That  would  be  asking  a  good  deal. 
When  a  bunch  of  quail  rise  out  of  a  cornfield  they're  a  mighty 
tempting  sight,  if  a  man  likes  hunting.  We'll  have  a  picnic  for 
you  when  you  come  out  next  summer,  Gladys.  There  are 
some  pretty  places  over  there  in  the  timber." 

Gladys  started  up.  "Why,  it's  night  already!  It's  lovely 
here,  but  you  must  get  me  home,  Enid." 

They  found  it  dark  inside.  Claude  took  Enid  down  the 
ladder  and  out  to  her  car,  and  then  went  back  for  Gladys.  She 
was  sitting  on  the  floor  at  the  top  of  the  ladder.  Giving  her 
his  hand  he  helped  her  to  rise. 

"So  you  like  my  little  house,"  he  said  gratefully. 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes !"  Her  voice  was  full  of  feeling,  but  she 
did  not  exert  herself  to  say  more.  Claude  descended  in  front 
of  her  to  keep  her  from  slipping.  She  hung  back  while  he  led 
her  through  confusing  doorways  and  helped  her  over  the  piles 
of  laths  that  littered  the  floors.  At  the  edge  of  the  gaping 
cellar  entrance  she  stopped  and  leaned  wearily  on  his  arm  for 
a  moment.  She  did  not  speak,  but  he  understood  that  his  new 
house  made  her  sad;  that  she,  too,  had  come  to  the  place 
where  she  must  turn  out  of  the  old  path.  He  longed  to  whisper 


182  One  of  Ours 


to  her  and  beg  her  not  to  marry  his  brother.  He  lingered  and 
hesitated,  fumbling  in  the  dark.  She  had  his  own  cursed  kind 
of  sensibility;  she  would  expect  too  much  from  life  and  be 
disappointed.  He  was  reluctant  to  lead  her  out  into  the  chilly 
evening  without  some  word  of  entreaty.  He  would  willingly 
have  prolonged  their  passage, —  through  many  rooms  and  cor- 
ridors. Perhaps,  had  that  been  possible,  the  strength  in  him 
would  have  found  what  it  was  seeking;  even  in  this  short 
interval  it  had  stirred  and  made  itself  felt,  had  uttered  a 
confused  appeal.  Claude  was  greatly  surprised  at  himself. 


XI 


ENID  decided  that  she  would  be  married  in  the  first  week 
of  June.  Early  in  May  the  plasterers  and  painters 
began  to  be  busy  in  the  new  house.  The  walls  began 
to  shine,  and  Claude  went  about  all  day,  oiling  and  polishing 
the  hard-pine  floors  and  wainscoting.  He  hated  to  have  any- 
body step  on  his  floors.  He  planted  gourd  vines  about  the 
back  porch,  set  out  clematis  and  lilac  bushes,  and  put  in  a 
kitchen  garden.  He  and  Enid  were  going  to  Denver  and 
Colorado  Springs  for  their  wedding  trip,  but  Ralph  would  be 
at  home  then,  and  he  had  promised  to  come  over  and  water 
the  flowers  and  shrubs  if  the  weather  was  dry. 

Enid  often  brought  her  work  and  sat  sewing  on  the  front 
porch  while  Claude  was  rubbing  the  woodwork  inside  the 
house,  or  digging  and  planting  outside.  This  was  the  best  part 
of  his  courtship.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  spent 
such  happy  days  before.  If  Enid  did  not  come,  he  kept  look- 
ing down  the  road  and  listening,  went  from  one  thing  to 
another  and  made  no  progress.  He  felt  full  of  energy,  so  long 
as  she  sat  there  on  the  porch,  with  lace  and  ribbons  and  muslin 
in  her  lap.  When  he  passed  by,  going  in  or  out,  and  stopped 
to  be  near  her  for  a  moment,  she  seemed  glad  to  have  him 
tarry.  She  liked  him  to  admire  her  needlework,  and  did  not 
hesitate  to  show  him  the  featherstitching  and  embroidery  she 
was  putting  on  her  new  underclothes.  He  could  see,  from 
the  glances  they  exchanged,  that  the  painters  thought  this  very 
bold  behaviour  in  one  so  soon  to  be  a  bride.  He  thought  it 
very  charming  behaviour  himself,  though  he  would  never  have 

183 


184  One  of  Ours 


expected  it  of  Enid.  His  heart  beat  hard  when  he  realized 
how  far  she  confided  in  him,  how  little  she  was  afraid  of  him ! 
She  would  let  him  linger  there,  standing  over  her  and  looking 
down  at  her  quick  fingers,  or  sitting  on  the  ground  at  her  feet, 
gazing  at  the  muslin  pinned  to  her  knee,  until  his  own  sense 
of  propriety  told  him  to  get  about  his  work  and  spare  the 
feelings  of  the  painters. 

"When  are  you  going  over  to  the  timber  claim  with  me?" 
he  asked,  dropping  on  the  ground  beside  her  one  warm,  windy 
afternoon.  Enid  was  sitting  on  the  porch  floor,  her  back 
against  a  pillar,  and  her  feet  on  one  of  those  round  mats  of 
pursley  that  grow  over  hard-beaten  earth.  "I've  found  my 
flock  of  quail  again.  They  live  in  the  deep  grass,  over  by  a 
ditch  that  holds  water  most  of  the  year.  I'm  going  to  plant 
a  few  rows  of  peas  in  there,  so  they'll  have  a  feeding  ground 
at  home.  I  consider  Leonard's  cornfield  a  great  danger.  I 
don't  know  whether  to  take  him  into  my  confidence  or  not." 

"You've  told  Ernest  Havel,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes !"  Claude  replied,  trying  not  to  be  aware  of  the 
little  note  of  acrimony  in  her  voice.  "He's  perfectly  safe. 
That  place  is  a  paradise  for  birds.  The  trees  are  full  of 
nests.  You  can  stand  over  there  in  the  morning  and  hear  the 
young  robins  squawking  for  their  breakfast.  Come  up  early 
tomorrow  morning  and  go  over  with  me,  won't  you?  But 
wear  heavy  shoes ;  it's  wet  in  the  long  grass." 

While  they  were  talking  a  sudden  whirlwind  swept  round 
the  corner  of  the  house,  caught  up  the  little  mound  of  folded 
lace  corset-covers  and  strewed  them  over  the  dusty  yard. 
Claude  ran  after  them  with  Enid's  flowered  workbag  and  thrust 
them  into  it  as  he  came  upon  one  after  another,  fluttering  in 
the  weeds.  When  he  returned,  Enid  had  folded  her  needle- 


Enid  185 

case  and  was  putting  on  her  hat.  "Thank  you,"  she  said  with 
a  smile.  "Did  you  find  everything?" 

"I  think  so."  He  hurried  toward  the  car  to  hide  his  guilty 
face.  One  little  lace  thing  he  had  not  put  into  the  bag, 
but  had  thrust  into  his  pocket. 

The  next  morning  Enid  came  up  early  to  hear  the  birds  in 
the  timber. 


XII 


ON  the  night  before  his  wedding  Claude  went  to  bed 
early.  He  had  been  dashing  about  with  Ralph  all 
day  in  the  car,  making  final  preparations,  and  was 
worn  out.  He  fell  asleep  almost  at  once.  The  women  of 
the  household  could  not  so  easily  forget  the  great  event  of 
tomorrow.  After  the  supper  dishes  were  washed,  Mahailey 
clambered  up  to  the  attic  to  get  the  quilt  she  had  so  long  been 
saving  for  a  wedding  present  for  Claude.  She  took  it  out  of 
the  chest,  unfolded  it,  and  counted  the  stars  in  the  pattern  — 
counting  was  an  accomplishment  she  was  proud  of  —  before 
she  wrapped  it  up.  It  was  to  go  down  to  the  mill  house  with 
the  other  presents  tomorrow.  Mrs.  Wheeler  went  to  bed 
many  times  that  night.  She  kept  thinking  of  things  that  ought 
to  be  looked  after;  getting  up  and  going  to  make  sure  that 
Claude's  heavy  underwear  had  been  put  into  his  trunk,  against 
the  chance  of  cold  in  the  mountains;  or  creeping  downstairs 
to  see  that  the  six  roasted  chickens  which  were  to  help  out 
at  the  wedding  supper  were  securely  covered  from  the  cats. 
As  she  went  about  these  tasks,  she  prayed  constantly.  She 
had  not  prayed  so  long  and  fervently  since  the  battle  of  the 
Marne. 

Early  the  next  morning  Ralph  loaded  the  big  car  with  the 
presents  and  baskets  of  food  and  ran  down  to  the  Royces*. 
Two  motors  from  town  were  already  standing  in  the  mill  yard ; 
they  had  brought  a  company  of  girls  who  came  with  all  the 
June  roses  in  Frankfort  to  trim  the  house  for  the  wedding. 
When  Ralph  tooted  his  horn,  half-a-dozen  of  them  ran  out  to 

186 


Enid  187 

greet  him,  reproaching  him  because  he  had  not  brought  his 
brother  along.  Ralph  was  immediately  pressed  into  service. 
He  carried  the  step-ladder  wherever  he  was  told,  drove  nails, 
and  wound  thorny  sprays  of  rambler  roses  around  the  pillars 
between  the  front  and  back  parlours,  making  the  arch  under 
which  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place. 

Gladys  Farmer  had  not  been  able  to  leave  her  classes  at  the 
High  School  to  help  in  this  friendly  work,  but  at  eleven  o'clock 
a  livery  automobile  drove  up,  laden  with  white  and  pink  peonies 
from  her  front  yard,  and  bringing  a  box  of  hothouse  flowers 
she  had  ordered  for  Enid  from  Hastings.  The  girls  admired 
them,  but  declared  that  Gladys  was  extravagant,  as  usual;  the 
flowers  from  her  own  yard  would  really  have  been  enough. 
The  car  was  driven  by  a  lank,  ragged  boy  who  worked  about 
the  town  garage,  and  who  was  called  "Silent  Irv,"  because 
nobody  could  ever  get  a  word  out  of  him.  He  had  almost  no 
voice  at  all, —  a  thin  little  squeak  in  the  top  of  his  throat,  like 
the  gasping  whisper  of  a  medium  in  her  trance  state.  When 
he  came  to  the  front  door,  both  arms  full  of  peonies,  he  man- 
aged to  wheeze  out : 

"These  are  from  Miss  Farmer.  There  are  some  more  down 
there." 

The  girls  went  back  to  his  car  with  him,  and  he  took  out  a 
square  box,  tied  up  with  white  ribbons  and  little  silver  bells, 
containing  the  bridal  bouquet. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  get  these?"  Ralph  asked  the  thin 
boy.  "I  was  to  go  to  town  for  them." 

The  messenger  swallowed.  "Miss  Farmer  told  me  if  there 
were  any  other  flowers  at  the  station  marked  for  here,  I  should 
bring  them  along." 

"That  was  nice  of  her."     Ralph  thrust  his  hand  into  his 


One  of  Ours 


trousers  pocket.  "How  much?  I'll  settle  with  you  before  I 
forget." 

A  pink  flush  swept  over  the  boy's  pale  face, —  a  delicate  face 
under  ragged  hair,  contracted  by  a  kind  of  shrinking  unhappi- 
ness.  His  eyes  were  always  half-closed,  as  if  he  did  not  want 
to  see  the  world  around  him,  or  to  be  seen  by  it.  He  went 
about  like  somebody  in  a  dream.  "Miss  Farmer,"  he  whis- 
pered, "has  paid  me." 

"Well,  she  thinks  of  everything !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  girls. 
"You  used  to  go  to  school  to  Gladys,  didn't  you,  Irv  ?" 

"Yes,  mam."  He  got  into  his  car  without  opening  the 
door,  slipping  like  an  eel  round  the  steering-rod,  and  drove  off. 

The  girls  followed  Ralph  up  the  gravel  walk  toward  the 
house.  One  whispered  to  the  others :  "Do  you  suppose  Gladys 
will  come  out  tonight  with  Bayliss  Wheeler?  I  always 
thought  she  had  a  pretty  warm  spot  in  her  heart  for  Claude, 
myself." 

Some  one  changed  the  subject.  "I  can't  get  over  hear- 
ing Irv  talk  so  much.  Gladys  must  have  put  a  spell  on 
him." 

"She  was  always  kind  to  him  in  school,"  said  the  girl  who 
had  questioned  the  silent  boy.  "She  said  he  was  good  in  his 
studies,  but  he  was  so  frightened  he  could  never  recite.  She 
let  him  write  out  the  answers  at  his  desk." 

Ralph  stayed  for  lunch,  playing  about  with  the  girls  until 
his  mother  telephoned  for  him.  "Now  I'll  have  to  go  home 
and  look  after  my  brother,  or  he'll  turn  up  tonight  in  a  striped 
shirt." 

"Give  him  our  love,"  the  girls  called  after  him,  "and  tell  him 
not  to  be  late." 

As   he   drove   toward   the    farm,   Ralph   met   Dan,   taking 


Enid  189 

Claude's  trunk  into  town.     He  slowed  his  car.     "Any  mes- 
sage?" he  called. 

Dan  grinned.  "Naw.  I  left  him  doin'  as  well  as  could  be 
expected." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  met  Ralph  on  the  stairs.  "He's  up  in  his 
room.  He  complains  his  new  shoes  are  too  tight.  I  think  it's 
nervousness.  Perhaps  he'll  let  you  shave  him;  I'm  sure  he'll 
cut  himself.  And  I  wish  the  barber  hadn't  cut  his  hair  so 
short,  Ralph.  I  hate  this  new  fashion  of  shearing  men  behind 
the  ears.  The  back  of  his  neck  is  the  ugliest  part  of  a  man." 
She  spoke  with  such  resentment  that  Ralph  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"Why,  Mother,  I  thought  all  men  looked  alike  to  you! 
Anyhow,  Claude's  no  beauty." 

"When  will  you  want  your  bath?  I'll  have  to  manage  so 
that  everybody  won't  be  calling  for  hot  water  at  once."  She 
turned  to  Mr.  Wheeler  who  sat  writing  a  check  at  the  secretary. 
"Father,  could  you  take  your  bath  now,  and  be  out  of  the 

way?" 

"Bath  ?"  Mr.  Wheeler  shouted,  "I  don't  want  any  bath !  I'm 
not  going  to  be  married  tonight.  I  guess  we  don't  have  to 
boil  the  whole  house  for  Enid." 

Ralph  snickered  and  shot  upstairs.  He  found  Claude  sitting 
on  the  bed,  with  one  shoe  off  and  one  shoe  on.  A  pile  of 
socks  lay  scattered  on  the  rug.  A  suitcase  stood  open  on  one 
chair  and  a  black  travelling  bag  on  another. 

"Are  you   sure  they're  too  small?"   Ralph  asked. 

"About  four  sizes." 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  get  them  big  enough?" 

"I  did.  That  shark  in  Hastings  worked  off  another  pair 
on  me  when  I  wasn't  looking.  That's  all  right,"  snatching 
away  the  shoe  his  brother  had  picked  up  to  examine.  "I  don't 


190  One  of  Ours 


care,  so  long  as  I  can  stand  in  them.     You'd  better  go  telephone 
the  depot  and  ask  if  the  train's  on  time." 

"They  won't  know  yet.     It's  seven  hours  till  it's  due." 

"Then  telephone  later.  But  find  out,  somehow.  I  don't 
want  to  stand  around  that  station,  waiting  for  the  train." 

Ralph  whistled.  Clearly,  his  young  man  was  going  to  be 
hard  to  manage.  He  proposed  a  bath  as  a  soothing  measure. 
No,  Claude  had  had  his  bath.  Had  he,  then,  packed  his  suit- 
case? 

"How  the  devil  can  I  pack  it  when  I  don't  know  what  I'm 
going  to  put  on?" 

"You'll  put  on  one  shirt  and  one  pair  of  socks.  I'm  going 
to  get  some  of  this  stuff  out  of  the  way  for  you."  Ralph 
caught  up  a  handful  of  socks  and  fell  to  sorting  them.  Several 
had  bright  red  spots  on  the  toe.  He  began  to  laugh. 

"I  know  why  your  shoe  hurts,  you've  cut  your  foot !" 

Claude  sprang  up  as  if  a  hornet  had  stung  him.  "Will  you 
get  out  of  here,"  he  shouted,  "and  let  me  alone?" 

Ralph  vanished.  He  told  his  mother  he  would  dress  at  once, 
as  they  might  have  to  use  force  with  Claude  at  the  last  moment. 

The  wedding  ceremony  was  to  be  at  eight,  supper  was  to 
follow,  and  Claude  and  Enid  were  to  leave  Frankfort  at  10:  25, 
on  the  Denver  express.  At  six  o'clock,  when  Ralph  knocked 
at  his  brother's  door,  he  found  him  shaved  and  brushed,  and 
dressed,  except  for  his  coat.  His  tucked  shirt  was  not 
rumpled,  and  his  tie  was  properly  knotted.  Whatever  pain 
they  concealed,  his  patent  leather  shoes  were  smooth  and 
glistening  and  resolutely  pointed. 

"Are  you  packed?"  Ralph  asked  in  astonishment. 

"Nearly.     I  wish  you'd  go  over  things  and  make  them  look 


Enid  191 

a  little  neater,  if  you  can.  I'd  hate  to  have  a  girl  see  the 
inside  of  that  suitcase,  the  way  it  is.  Where  shall  I  put  my 
cigars?  They'll  make  everything  smell,  wherever  I  put  them. 
All  my  clothes  seem  to  smell  of  cooking,  or  starch,  or  some- 
thing. I  don't  know  what  Mahailey  does  to  them,"  he  ended 
bitterly. 

Ralph  looked  outraged.  "Well,  of  all  ingratitude !  Mahail- 
ey's  been  ironing  your  damned  old  shirts  for  a  week!" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Don't  rattle  me.  I  forgot  to  put  any 
handkerchiefs  in  my  trunk,  so  you'll  have  to  get  the  whole 
bunch  in  somewhere." 

Mr.  Wheeler  appeared  in  the  doorway,  his  Sunday  black 
trousers  gallowsed  up  high  over  a  white  shirt,  wafting  a  rich 
odor  of  bayrum  from  his  tumbled  hair.  He  held  a  thirt  folded 
paper  delicately  between  his  thick  fingers. 

"Where  is  your  bill-book,  son  ?" 

Claude  caught  up  his  discarded  trousers  and  extracted  a 
square  of  leather  from  the  pocket.  His  father  took  it  and 
placed  the  bit  of  paper  inside  with  the  bank  notes.  "You 
may  want  to  pick  up  some  trifle  your  wife  fancies,"  he  said. 
"Have  you  got  your  railroad  tickets  in  here?  Here  is  your 
trunk  check  Dan  brought  back.  Don't  forget,  I've  put  it  in 
with  your  tickets  and  marked  it  C.  W.,  so  you'll  know  which 
is  your  check  and  which  is  Enid's." 

"Yes,  sir.     Thank  you,  sir." 

Claude  had  already  drawn  from  the  bank  all  the  money  he 
would  need.  This  additional  bank  check  was  Mr.  Wheeler's 
admission  that  he  was  sorry  for  some  sarcastic  remarks  he  had 
made  a  few  days  ago,  when  he  discovered  that  Claude  had 
reserved  a  stateroom  on  the  Denver  express.  Claude  had 


192  One  of  Ours 


answered  curtly  that  when  Enid  and  her  mother  went  to  Mich- 
igan they  always  had  a  stateroom,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  ask 
her  to  travel  less  comfortably  with  him. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  Wheeler  family  set  out  in  the  two  cars 
that  stood  waiting  by  the  windmill.  Mr.  Wheeler  drove  the 
big  Cadillac,  and  Ralph  took  Mahailey  and  Dan  in  the  Ford. 
When  they  reached  the  mill  house  the  outer  yard  was  already 
black  with  motors,  and  the  porch  and  parlours  were  full  of 
people  talking  and  moving  about. 

Claude  went  directly  upstairs.  Ralph  began  to  seat  the 
guests,  arranging  the  folding  chairs  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave 
a  passage  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  the  floral  arch  he  had 
constructed  that  morning.  The  preacher  had  his  Bible  in  his 
hand  and  was  standing  under  the  light,  hunting  for  his  chapter. 
Enid  would  have  preferred  to  have  Mr.  Weldon  come  down 
from  Lincoln  to  marry  her,  but  that  would  have  wounded 
Mr.  Snowberry  deeply.  After  all,  he  was  her  minister,  though 
he  was  not  eloquent  and  persuasive  like  Arthur  Weldon.  He 
had  fewer  English  words  at  his  command  than  most  human 
beings,  and  even  those  did  not  come  to  him  readily.  In  his 
pulpit  he  sought  for  them  and  struggled  with  them  until  drops 
of  perspiration  rolled  from  his  forehead  and  fell  upon  his 
coarse,  matted  brown  beard.  But  he  believed  what  he  said, 
and  language  was  so  little  an  accomplishment  with  him  that 
he  was  not  tempted  to  say  more  than  he  believed.  He  had 
been  a  drummer  boy  in  the  Civil  War,  on  the  losing  side,  and 
he  was  a  simple,  courageous  man. 

Ralph  was  to  be  both  usher  and  best  man.  Gladys  Farmer 
could  not  be  one  of  the  bridesmaids  because  she  was  to  play 
the  wedding  march.  At  eight  o'clock  Enid  and  Claude  came 
downstairs  together,  conducted  by  Ralph  and  followed  by 


Enid  193 

four  girls  dressed  in  white,  like  the  bride.  They  took  their 
places  under  the  arch  before  the  preacher.  He  began  with  the 
chapter  from  Genesis  about  the  creation  of  man,  and  Adam's 
rib,  reading  in  a  laboured  manner,  as  if  he  did  not  quite  know 
why  he  had  selected  that  passage  and  were  looking  for  some- 
thing he  did  not  find.  His  nose -glasses  kept  falling  off  and 
dropping  upon  the  open  book.  Throughout  this  prolonged 
fumbling  Enid  stood  calm,  looking  at  him  respectfully,  very 
pretty  in  her  short  veil.  Claude  was  so  pale  that  he  looked 
unnatural/ — nobody  had  ever  seen  him  like  that  before.  His 
face,  between  his  very  black  clothes  and  his  smooth,  sandy 
hair,  was  white  and  severe,  and  he  uttered  his  responses  in  a 
hollow  voice.  Mahailey,  at  the  back  of  the  room,  in  a  black 
hat  with  green  gooseberries  on  it,  was  standing,  in  order  to 
miss  nothing.  She  watched  Mr.  Snowberry  as  if  she  hoped  to 
catch  some  visible  sign  of  the  miracle  he  was  performing.  She 
always  wondered  just  what  it  was  the  preacher  did  to  make 
the  wrongest  thing  in  the  world  the  Tightest  thing  in  the  world. 
When  it  was  over,  Enid  went  upstairs  to  put  on  her  travel- 
ling dress,  and  Ralph  and  Gladys  began  seating  the  guests  for 
supper.  Just  twenty  minutes  later  Enid  came  down  and  took 
her  place  beside  Claude  at  the  head  of  the  long  table.  The 
company  rose  and  drank  the  bride's  health  in  grape- juice  punch. 
Mr.  Royce,  however,  while  the  guests  were  being  seated,  had 
taken  Mr.  Wheeler  down  to  the  fruit  cellar,  where  the  two  old 
friends  drank  off  a  glass  of  well-seasoned  Kentucky  whiskey, 
and  shook  hands.  When  they  came  back  to  the  table,  looking 
younger  than  when  they  withdrew,  the  preacher  smelled  the 
tang  of  spirits  and  felt  slighted.  He  looked  disconsolately  into 
his  ruddy  goblet  and  thought  about  the  marriage  at  Cana.  He 
tried  to  apply  his  Bible  literally  to  life  and,  though  he  didn't 


194  One  °f  Ours 


dare  breathe  it  aloud  in  these  days,  he  could  never  see  why  he 
was  better  than  his  Lord. 

Ralph,  as  master  of  ceremonies,  kept  his  head  and  forgot 
nothing.  When  it  was  time  to  start,  he  tapped  Claude  on  the 
shoulder,  cutting  his  father  short  in  one  of  his  best  stories. 
Contrary  to  custom,  the  bridal  couple  were  to  go  to  the  station 
unaccompanied,  and  they  vanished  from  the  head  of  the  table 
with  only  a  nod  and  a  smile  to  the  guests.  Ralph  hurried 
them  into  the  light  car,  where  he  had  already  stowed  Enid's 
hand  luggage.  Only  wizened  little  Mrs.  Royce  slipped  out 
from  the  kitchen  to  bid  them  good-bye. 

That  evening  some  bad  boys  had  come  out  from  town  and 
strewn  the  road  near  the  mill  with  dozens  of  broken  glass 
bottles,  after  which  they  hid  in  the  wild  plum  bushes  to  wait 
for  the  fun.  Ralph's  was  the  first  car  out,  and  though  his 
lights  glittered  on  this  bed  of  jagged  glass,  there  was  no  time 
to  stop ;  the  road  was  ditched  on  either  side,  so  he  had  to  drive 
straight  ahead,  and  got  into  Frankfort  on  flat  tires.  The 
express  whistled  just  as  he  pulled  up  at  the  station.  He  and 
Claude  caught  up  the  four  pieces  of  hand  luggage  and  put 
them  in  the  stateroom.  Leaving  Enid  there  with  the  bags, 
the  two  boys  went  to  the  rear  platform  of  the  observation  car 
to  talk  until  the  last  moment.  Ralph  checked  off  on  his  fingers 
the  list  of  things  he  had  promised  Claude  to  attend  to.  Claude 
thanked  him  feelingly.  He  felt  that  without  Ralph  he  could 
never  have  got  married  at  all.  They  had  never  been  such 
good  friends  as  during  the  last  fortnight. 

The  wheels  began  to  turn.  Ralph  gripped  Claude's  hand, 
ran  to  the  front  of  the  car  and  stepped  off.  As  Claude  passed 
him,  he  stood  waving  his  handkerchief, —  a  rather  funny  figure 
under  the  station  lights,  in  his  black  clothes  and  his  stiff  straw 


Enid  195 

hat,  his  short  legs  well  apart,  wearing  his  incurably  jaunty  air. 

The  train  glided  quietly  out  through  the  summer  darkness, 
along  the  timbered  river  valley.  Claude  was  alone  on  the  back 
platform,  smoking  a  nervous  cigar.  As  they  passed  the  deep 
cut  where  Lovely  Creek  flowed  into  the  river,  he  saw  the 
lights  of  the  mill  house  flash  for  a  moment  in  the  distance. 
The  night  air  was  still ;  heavy  with  the  smell  of  sweet  clover 
that  grew  high  along  the  tracks,  and  of  wild  grapevines  wet 
with  dew.  The  conductor  came  to  ask  for  the  tickets,  saying 
with  a  wise  smile  that  he  had  been  hunting  for  him,  as  he 
didn't  like  to  trouble  the  lady. 

After  he  was  gone,  Claude  looked  at  his  watch,  threw  away 
the  end  of  his  cigar,  and  went  back  through  the  Pullman 
cars.  The  passengers  had  gone  to  bed ;  the  overhead  lights 
were  always  turned  low  when  the  train  left  Frankfort.  He 
made  his  way  through  the  aisles  of  swaying  green  curtains,  and 
tapped  at  the  door  of  his  state  room.  It  opened  a  little  way, 
and  Enid  stood  there  in  a  white  silk  dressing-gown  with  many 
ruffles,  her  hair  in  two  -smooth  braids  over  her  shoulders. 

"Claude,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  ''would  you  mind  getting 
a  berth  somewhere  out  in  the  car  tonight?  The  porter  says 
they  are  not  all  taken.  I'm  not  feeling  very  well.  I  think 
the  dressing  on  the  chicken  salad  must  have  been  too  rich." 

He  answered  mechanically.  "Yes,  certainly.  Can't  I  get 
you  something  ?}> 

"No,  thank  you.  Sleep  will  do  me  more  good  than  any- 
thing else.  Good-night." 

She  closed  the  door,  and  he  heard  the  lock  slip.  He  stood 
looking  at  the  highly  polished  wood  of  the  panel  for  a  moment, 
then  turned  irresolutely  and  went  back  along  the  slightly 
swaying  aisle  of  green  curtains.  In  the  observation  car  he 


196  One  of  Ours 


stretched  himself  out  upon  two  wicker  chairs  and  lit  another 
cigar.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  porter  came  in. 

"This  car  is  closed  for  the  night,  sah.  Is  you  the  gen'leman 
from  the  stateroom  in  fourteen?  Do  you  want  a  lower?" 

"No,  thank  you.     Is  there  a  smoking  car?" 

"They  is  the  day-coach  smokah,  but  it  ain't  likely  very  clean 
at  this  time  o'  night." 

"That's  all  right.  It's  forward?"  Claude  absently  handed 
him  a  coin,  and  the  porter  conducted  him  to  a  very  dirty  car 
where  the  floor  was  littered  with  newspapers  and  cigar  stumps, 
and  the  leather  cushions  were  grey  with  dust.  A  few  desperate 
looking  men  lay  about  with  their  shoes  off  and  their  suspenders 
hanging  down  their  back.  The  sight  of  them  reminded  Claude 
that  his  left  foot  was  very  sore,  and  that  his  shoes  must  have 
been  hurting  him,  for  some  time.  He  pulled  them  off,  and 
thrust  his  feet,  in  their  silk  socks,  on  the  opposite  seat. 

On  that  long,  dirty,  uncomfortable  ride  Claude  felt  many 
things,  but  the  paramount  feeling  was  homesickness.  His  hurt 
was  of  a  kind  that  made  him  turn  with  a  sort  of  aching 
cowardice  to  the  old,  familiar  things  that  were  as  sure  as  the 
sunrise.  If  only  the  sagebrush  plain,  over  which  the  stars 
were  shining,  could  suddenly  break  up  and  resolve  itself  into 
the  windings  of  Lovely  Creek,  with  his  father's  house  on  the 
hill,  dark  and  silent  in  the  summer  night !  When  he  closed 
his  eyes  he  could  see  the  light  in  his  mother's  window ;  and, 
lower  down,  the  glow  of  Mahailey's  lamp,  where  she  sat 
nodding  and  mending  his  old  shirts.  Human  love  was  a  won- 
derful thing,  he  told  himself,  and  it  was  most  wonderful 
where  it  had  least  to  gain. 

By  morning  the  storm  of  anger,  disappointment,  and  humil- 
iation that  was  boiling  in  him  when  he  first  sat  down  in  the 


Enid  197 

observation  car,  had  died  out.  One  thing  lingered;  the  pecul- 
iarly casual,  indifferent,  uninterested  tone  of  his  wife's  voice 
when  she  sent  him  away.  It  was  the  flat  tone  in  which  people 
make  commonplace  remarks  about  common  things. 

Day  broke  with  silvery  brightness  on  the  summer  sage. 
The  sky  grew  pink,  the  sand  grew  gold.  The  dawn-wind 
brought  through  the  windows  the  acrid  smell  of  the  sagebrush : 
an  odour  that  is  peculiarly  stimulating  in  the  early  morning, 
when  it  always  seems  to  promise  freedom  .  .  .  large  spaces, 
new  beginnings,  better  days. 

The  train  was  due  in  Denver  at  eight  o'clock.  Exactly  at 
seven  thirty  Claude  knocked  at  Enid's  door, —  this  time  firmly. 
She  was  dressed,  and  greeted  him  with  a  fresh,  smiling  face, 
holding  her  hat  in  her  hand. 

"Are  you   feeling  better?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes !  I  am  perfectly  all  right  this  morning.  I've  put 
out  all  your  things  for  you,  there  on  the  seat." 

He  glanced  at  them.  "Thank  you.  But  I  won't  have  time 
to  change,  I'm  afraid." 

"Oh,  won't  you?  I'm  so  sorry  I  forgot  to  give  you  your 
bag  last  night.  But  you  must  put  on  another  necktie,  at  least. 
You  look  too  much  like  a  groom." 

"Do  I  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  curl  of  his  lip. 

Everything  he  needed  was  neatly  arranged  on  the  plush  seat ; 
shirt,  collar,  tie,  brushes,  even  a  handkerchief.  Those  in  his 
pockets  were  black  from  dusting  off  the  cinders  that  blew  in 
all  night,  and  he  threw  them  down  and  took  up  the  clean 
one.  There  was  a  damp  spot  on  it,  and  as  he  unfolded  it  he 
recognized  the  scent  of  a  cologne  Enid  often  used.  For  some 
reason  this  attention  unmanned  him.  He  felt  the  smart  of 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  to  hide  them  bent  over  the  metal  basin 


198  One  of  Ours 


and  began  to  scrub  his  face.  Enid  stood  behind  him,  adjust- 
ing her  hat  in  the  mirror. 

"How  terribly  smoky  you  are,  Claude.  I  hope  you  don't 
smoke  before  breakfast?" 

"No.  I  was  in  the  smoking  car  awhile.  I  suppose  my 
clothes  got  full  of  it." 

"You  are  covered  with  dust  and  cinders,  too!"  She  took 
the  clothes  broom  from  the  rack  and  began  to  brush  him. 

Claude  caught  her  hand.  "Don't,  please!"  he  said  sharply. 
"The  porter  can  do  that  for  me." 

Enid  watched  him  furtively  as  he  closed  and  strapped  his 
suitcase.  She  had  often  heard  that  men  were  cross  before 
breakfast. 

"Sure  you've  forgotten  nothing?"  he  asked  before  he  closed 
her  bag. 

"Yes.     I  never  lose  things  on  the  train, —  do  you  ?" 

"Sometimes,"  he  replied  guardedly,  not  looking  up  as  he 
snapped  the  catch. 


BOOK  THREE: 
SUNRISE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 


CLAUDE  was  to  continue  farming  with  his  father,  and 
after  he  returned  from  his  wedding  journey,  he  fell 
at  once  to  work.  The  harvest  was  almost  as  abundant 
as  that  of  the  summer  before,  and  he  was  busy  in  the  fields 
six  days  a  week. 

One  afternoon  in  August  he  came  home  with  his  team, 
watered  and  fed  the  horses  in  a  leisurely  way,  and  then  entered 
his  house  by  the  back  door.  Enid,  he  knew,  would  not  be 
there.  She  had  gone  to  Frankfort  to  a  meeting  of  the  Anti- 
Saloon  League.  The  Prohibition  party  was  bestirring  itself  in 
Nebraska  that  summer,  confident  of  voting  the  State  dry  the 
following  year,  which  purpose  it  triumphantly  accomplished. 

Enid's  kitchen,  full  of  the  afternoon  sun,  glittered  with  new 
paint,  spotless  linoleum,  and  blue-and-white  cooking  vessels. 
In  the  dining-room  the  cloth  was  laid,  and  the  table  was  neatly 
set  for  one.  Claude  opened  the  icebox,  where  his  supper  was 
arranged  for  him ;  a  dish  of  canned  salmon  with  a  white  sauce ; 
hardboiled  eggs,  peeled  and  lying  in  a  nest  of  lettuce  leaves ; 
a  bowl  of  ripe  tomatoes,  a  bit  of  cold  rice  pudding;  cream 
and  butter.  He  placed  these  things  on  the  table,  cut  some 
bread,  and  after  carelessly  washing  his  face  and  hands,  sat 
down  to  eat  in  his  working  shirt.  He  propped  the  newspaper 
against  a  red  glass  water  pitcher  and  read  the  war  news  while 
he  had  his  supper.  He  was  annoyed  when  he  heard  heavy 
footsteps  coming  around  the  house.  Leonard  Dawson  stuck 
his  head  in  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  Claude  rose  quickly  and 
reached  for  his  hat;  but  Leonard  came  in,  uninvited,  and  sat 

201 


2O2  One  of  Ours 


down.  His  brown  shirt  was  wet  where  his  suspenders  gripped 
his  shoulders,  and  his  face,  under  a  wide  straw  hat  which 
he  did  not  remove,  was  unshaven  and  streaked  with  dust. 

"Go  ahead  and  finish  your  supper,"  he  cried.  "Having  a 
wife  with  an  electric  is  next  thing  to  having  no  wife  at  all. 
How  they  do  like  to  roll  around!  I've  been  mighty  blamed 
careful  to  see  that  Susie  never  learned  to  drive  a  car.  See 
here,  Claude,  how  soon  do  you  figure  you'll  be  able  to  let  me 
have  the  thrasher?  My  wheat  will  begin  to  sprout  in  the 
shock  pretty  soon.  Do  you  guess  your  father  would  be  willing 
to  work  on  Sunday,  if  I  helped  you,  to  let  the  machine  off 
a  day  earlier?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  Mother  wouldn't  like  it.  We  never  have 
done  that,  even  when  we  were  crowded." 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  go  over  and  have  a  talk  with  your  mother. 
If  she  could  look  inside  my  wheat  shocks,  maybe  I  could 
convince  her  it's  pretty  near  a  case  of  your  neighbour's  ox 
falling  into  a  pit  on  the  Sabbath  day." 

"That's  a  good  idea.     She's  always  reasonable." 

Leonard  rose.     "What's  the  news?" 

"The  Germans  have  torpedoed  an  English  passenger  ship, 
the  Arabic;  coming  this  way,  too." 

"That's  all  right,"  Leonard  declared.  "Maybe  Americans 
will  stay  at  home  now,  and  mind  their  own  business.  I  don't 
care  how  they  chew  each  other  up  over  there,  not  a  bit!  I'd 
as  soon  one  got  wiped  off  the  map  as  another." 

"Your  grandparents  were  English  people,  weren't  they?" 

"That's  a  long  while  ago.  Yes,  my  grandmother  wore  a 
cap  and  little  white  curls,  and  I  tell  Susie  I  wouldn't  mind  if 
the  baby  turned  out  to  have  my  grandmother's  skin.  She 
had  the  finest  complexion  I  ever  saw." 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  203 

As  they  stepped  out  of  the  back  door,  a  troop  of  white 
chickens  with  red  combs  ran  squawking  toward  them.  It  was 
the  hour  at  which  the  poultry  was  usually  fed.  Leonard 
stopped  to  admire  them.  "You've  got  a  fine  lot  of  hens, 
I  always  did  like  white  leghorns.  Where  are  all  your 
roosters  ?" 

"We've  only  got  one.  He's  shut  up  in  the  coop.  The 
brood  hens  are  setting.  Enid  is  going  to  try  raising  winter 
frys." 

"Only  one  rooster?     And  may  I  ask  what  these  hens  do?" 

Claude  laughed.  "They  lay  eggs,  just  the  same, —  better. 
It's  the  fertile  eggs  that  spoil  in  warm  weather." 

This  information  seemed  to  make  Leonard  angry.  "I  never 
heard  of  such  damned  nonsense,"  he  blustered.  "I  raise 
chickens  on  a  natural  basis,  or  I  don't  raise  'em  at  all."  He 
jumped  into  his  car  for  fear  he  would  say  more. 

When  he  got  home  his  wife  was  lifting  supper,  and  the 
baby  sat  near  her  in  its  buggy,  playing  with  a  rattle.  Dirty 
and  sweaty  as  he  was,  Leonard  picked  up  the  clean  baby  and 
began  to  kiss  it  and  smell  it,  rubbing  his  stubbly  chin  in  the 
soft  creases  of  its  neck.  The  little  girl  was  beside  herself 
with  delight. 

"Go  and  wash  up  for  supper,  Len,"  Susie  called  from  the 
stove.  He  put  down  the  baby  and  began  splashing  in  the  tin 
basin,  talking  with  his  eyes  shut. 

"Susie,  I'm  in  an  awful  temper.  I  can't  stand  that  damned 
wife  of  Claude's !" 

She  was  spearing  roasting  ears  out  of  a  big  iron  pot  and 
looked  up  through  the  steam.  "Why,  have  you  seen  her?  I 
was  listening  on  the  telephone  this  morning  and  heard  her  tell 
Bayliss  she  would  be  in  town  until  late." 


204  One  of  Ours 


"Oh,  yes!  She  went  to  town  all  right,  and  he's  over  there 
eating  a  cold  supper  by  himself.  That  woman's  a  fanatic. 
She  ain't  content  with  practising  prohibition  on  humankind ; 
she's  begun  now  on  the  hens."  While  he  placed  the  chairs  and 
wheeled  the  baby  up  to  the  table,  he  explained  Enid's  method 
of  raising  poultry  to  his  wife.  She  said  she  really  didn't  see 
any  harm  in  it. 

"Now  be  honest,  Susie;  did  you  ever  know  hens  would 
keep  on  laying  without  a  rooster?" 

"No,  I  didn't,  but  I  was  brought  up  the  old-fashioned  way. 
Enid  has  poultry  books  and  garden  books,  and  all  such  things. 
I  don't  doubt  she  gets  good  ideas  from  them.  But  anyhow, 
you  be  careful.  She's  our  nearest  neighbour,  and  I  don't 
want  to  have  trouble  with  her." 

"I'll  have  to  keep  out  of  her  way,  then.  If  she  tries  to  do 
any  missionary  work  among  my  chickens,  I'll  tell  her  a  few 
home  truths  her  husband's  too  bashful  to  tell  her.  It's  my 
opinion  she's  got  that  boy  cowed  already." 

"Now,  Len,  you  know  she  won't  bother  your  chickens.  You 
keep  quiet.  But  Claude  does  seem  to  sort  of  avoid  people," 
Susie  admitted,  filling  her  husband's  plate  again.  "Mrs.  Joe 
Havel  says  Ernest  don't  go  to  Claude's  any  more.  It  seems 
Enid  went  over  there  and  wanted  Ernest  to  paste  some  Pro- 
hibition posters  about  fifteen  million  drunkards  on  their  barn, 
for  an  example  to  the  Bohemians.  Ernest  wouldn't  do  it,  and 
told  her  he  was  going  to  vote  for  saloons,  and  Enid  was  quite 
spiteful,  Mrs.  Havel  said.  It's  too  bad,  when  those  boys  were 
such  chums.  I  used  to  like  to  see  them  together."  Susie 
spoke  so  kindly  that  her  husband  shot  her  a  quick  glance 
of  shy  affection. 

"Do  you  suppose  Claude  relished  having  that  preacher  visit- 


m 

Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  205 

ing  them,  when  they  hadn't  been  married  two  months?  Sit- 
ting on  the  front  porch  in  a  white  necktie  every  day,  while 
Claude  was  out  cutting  wheat?" 

"Well,  anyhow,  I  guess  Claude  had  more  to  eat  when 
Brother  Weldon  was  staying  there.  Preachers  won't  be  fed 
on  calories,  or  whatever  it  is  Enid  calls  'em,"  said  Susie,  who 
was  given  to  looking  on  the  bright  side  of  things.  "Claude's 
wife  keeps  a  wonderful  kitchen;  but  so  could  I,  if  I  never 
cooked  any  more  than  she  does." 

Leonard  gave  her  a  meaning  look.  "I  don't  believe  you 
would  live  with  the  sort  of  man  you  could  feed  out  of  a 
tin  can." 

"No,  I  don't  believe  I  would."  She  pushed  the  buggy 
toward  him.  "Take  her  up,  Daddy.  She  wants  to  play  with 
you." 

Leonard  sat  the  baby  on  his  shoulder  and  carried  her  off 
to  show  her  the  pigs.  Susie  kept  laughing  to  herself  as  she 
cleared  the  table  and  washed  the  dishes ;  she  was  much  amused 
by  what  her  husband  had  told  her. 

Late  that  evening,  when  Leonard  was  starting  for  the  barn 
to  see  that  all  was  well  before  he  went  to  bed,  he  observed  a 
discreet  black  object  rolling  along  the  highroad  in  the  moon- 
light, a  red  spark  winking  in  the  rear.  He  called  Susie  to 
the  door. 

"See,  there  she  goes;  going  home  to  report  the  success  of 
the  meeting  to  Claude.  Wouldn't  that  be  a  nice  way  to  have 
your  wife  coming  in?" 

"Now,  Leonard,  if  Claude  likes  it  — 

"Likes  it?"  Big  Leonard  drew  himself  up.  "What  can 
he  do,  poor  kid  ?  He's  stung !" 


II 

AFTER  Leonard  left  him,  Claude  cleared  away  the 
remains  of  his  supper  and  watered  the  gourd  vine 
before  he  went  to  milk.  It  was  not  really  a  gourd 
vine  at  all,  but  a  summer-squash,  of  the  crook-necked,  warty, 
orange-coloured  variety,  and  it  was  now  full  of  ripe  squashes, 
hanging  by  strong  stems  among  the  rough  green  leaves  and 
prickly  tendrils.  Claude  had  watched  its  rapid  growth  and  the 
opening  of  its  splotchy  yellow  blossoms,  feeling  grateful  to  a 
thing  that  did  so  lustily  what  it  was  put  there  to  do.  He  had 
the  same  feeling  for  his  little  Jersey  cow,  which  came  home 
every  night  with  full  udders  and  gave  down  her  milk  willingly, 
keeping  her  tail  out  of  his  face,  as  only  a  well-disposed  cow 
will  do. 

His  milking  done,  he  sat  down  on  the  front  porch  and  lit 
a  cigar.  While  he  smoked,  he  did  not  think  about  anything 
but  the  quiet  and  the  slow  cooling  of  the  atmosphere,  and  how 
good  it  was  to  sit  still.  The  moon  swam  up  over  the  bare 
wheat  fields,  big  and  magical,  like  a  great  flower.  Presently 
he  got  some  bath  towels,  went  across  the  yard  to  the  wind- 
mill, took  off  his  clothes,  and  stepped  into  the  tin  horse  tank. 
The  water  had  been  warmed  by  the  sun  all  afternoon,  and 
was  not  much  cooler  than  his  body.  He  stretched  himself  out 
in  it,  and  resting  his  head  on  the  metal  rim,  lay  on  his  back, 
looking  up  at  the  moon.  The  sky  was  a  midnight-blue,  like 
warm,  deep,  blue  water,  and  the  moon  seemed  to  lie  on  it  like 
a  water-lily,  floating  forward  with  an  invisible  current.  One 
expected  to  see  its  great  petals  open. 

206 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  207 

For  some  reason,  Claude  began  to  think  about  the  far-off 
times  and  countries  it  had  shone  upon.  He  never  thought  of 
the  sun  as  coming  from  distant  lands,  or  as  having  taken 
part  in  human  life  in  other  ages.  To  him,  the  sun  rotated 
about  the  wheatfields.  But  the  moon,  somehow,  came  out  of 
the  historic  past,  and  made  him  think  of  Egypt  and  the 
Pharaohs,  Babylon  and  the  hanging  gardens.  She  seemed 
particularly  to  have  looked  down  upon  the  follies  and  dis- 
appointments of  men;  into  the  slaves'  quarters  of  old  times, 
into  prison  windows,  and  into  fortresses  where  captives  lan- 
guished. 

Inside  of  living  people,  too,  captives  languished.  Yes,  in- 
side of  people  who  walked  and  worked  in  the  broad  sun, 
there  were  captives  dwelling  in  darkness, —  never  seen  from 
birth  to  death.  Into  those  prisons  the  moon  shone,  and  the 
prisoners  crept  to  the  windows  and  looked  out  with  mourn- 
ful eyes  at  the  white  globe  which  betrayed  no  secrets  and 
comprehended  all.  Perhaps  even  in  people  like  Mrs.  Royce 
and  his  brother  Bayliss  there  was  something  of  this  sort 
—  but  that  was  a  shuddery  thought.  He  dismissed  it  with  a 
quick  movement  of  his  hand  through  the  water,  which, 
disturbed,  caught  the  light  and  played  black  and  gold,  like 
something  alive,  over  his  chest.  In  his  own  mother  the 
imprisoned  spirit  was  almost  more  present  to  people  than  her 
corporeal  self.  He  had  so  often  felt  it  when  he  sat  with  her 
on  summer  nights  like  this.  Mahailey,  too,  had  one,  though  the 
walls  of  her  prison  were  so  thick  —  and  Gladys  Farmer.  Oh, 
yes,  how  much  Gladys  must  have  to  tell  this  perfect  confidant ! 
The  people  whose  hearts  were  set  high  needed  such  intercourse 
-  whose  wish  was  so  beautiful  that  there  were  no  experiences 
in  this  world  to  satisfy  it.  And  these  children  of  the  moon, 


208  One  of  Ours 


with  their  unappeased  longings  and  futile  dreams,  were  a  finer 
race  than  the  children  of  the  sun.  This  conception  flooded 
the  boy's  heart  like  a  second  moonrise,  flowed  through  him 
indefinite  and  strong,  while  he  lay  deathly  still  for  fear  of 
losing  it. 

At  last  the  black  cubical  object  which  had  caught  Leonard 
Dawson's  wrathful  eye,  came  rolling  along  the  highroad. 
Claude  snatched  up  his  clothes  and  towels,  and  without  waiting 
to  make  use  of  either,  he  ran,  a  white  man  across  a  bare  white 
yard.  Gaining  the  shelter  of  the  house,  he  found  his  bathrobe, 
and  fled  to  the  upper  porch,  where  he  lay  down  in  the  hammock. 
Presently  he  heard  his  name  called,  pronounced  as  if  it  were 
spelled  "Clod."  His  wife  came  up  the  stairs  and  looked  out  at 
him.  He  lay  motionless,  with  his  eyes  closed.  She  went 
away.  When  all  was  quiet  again  he  looked  off  at  the  still 
country,  and  the  moon  in  the  dark  indigo  sky.  His  revelation 
still  possessed  him,  making  his  whole  body  sensitive,  like  a 
tightly  strung  bow.  In  the  morning  he  had  forgotten,  or 
was  ashamed  of  what  had  seemed  so  true  and  so  entirely  his 
own  the  night  before.  He  agreed,  for  the  most  part,  that  it 
was  better  not  to  think  about  such  things,  and  when  he  could 
he  avoided  thinking. 


Ill 

AFTER  the  heavy  work  of  harvest  was  over,  Mrs. 
Wheeler  often  persuaded  her  husband,  when  he  was 
starting  off  in  his  buckboard,  to  take  her  as  far  as 
Claude's  new  house.  She  was  glad  Enid  didn't  keep  her 
parlour  dark,  as  Mrs.  Royce  kept  hers.  The  doors  and  win- 
dows were  always  open,  the  vines  and  the  long  petunias  in  the 
window-boxes  waved  in  the  breeze,  and  the  rooms  were  full 
of  sunlight  and  in  perfect  order.  Enid  wore  white  dresses 
about  her  work,  and  white  shoes  and  stockings.  She  managed 
a  house  easily  and  systematically.  On  Monday  morning 
Claude  turned  the  washing  machine  before  he  went  to  work, 
and  by  nine  o'clock  the  clothes  were  on  the  line.  Enid  liked 
to  iron,  and  Claude  had  never  before  in  his  life  worn  so  many 
clean  shirts,  or  worn  them  with  such  satisfaction.  She  told 
him  he  need  not  economize  in  working  shirts ;  it  was  as  easy  to 
iron  six  as  three. 

Although  within  a  few  months  Enid's  car  travelled  more 
than  two  thousand  miles  for  the  Prohibition  cause,  it  could  not 
be  said  that  she  neglected  her  house  for  reform.  Whether 
she  neglected  her  husband  depended  upon  one's  conception  of 
what  was  his  due.  When  Mrs.  Wheeler  saw  how  well  their 
little  establishment  was  conducted,  how  cheerful  and  attractive 
Enid  looked  when  one  happened  to  drop  in  there,  she  wondered 
that  Claude  was  not  happy.  And  Claude  himself  wondered. 
If  his  marriage  disappointed  him  in  some  respects,  he  ought 
to  be  a  man,  he  told  himself,  and  make  the  best  of  what  was 

209 


2io  One  of  Ours 


good  in  it.  If  his  wife  didn't  love  him,  it  was  because  love 
meant  one  thing  to  him  and  quite  another  thing  to  her.  She 
was  proud  of  him,  was  glad  to  see  him  when  he  came  in  from 
the  fields,  and  was  solicitous  for  his  comfort.  Everything 
about  a  man's  embrace  was  distasteful  to  Enid ;  something 
inflicted  upon  women,  like  the  pain  of  childbirth, —  for  Eve's 
transgression,  perhaps. 

This  repugnance  was  more  than  physical ;  she  disliked  ardour 
of  any  kind,  even  religious  ardour.  She  had  been  fonder  of 
Claude  before  she  married  him  than  she  was  now;  but  she 
hoped  for  a  readjustment.  Perhaps  sometime  she  could  like 
him  again  in  exactly  the  same  way.  Even  Brother  Weldon 
had  hinted  to  her  that  for  the  sake  of  their  future  tranquillity 
she  must  be  lenient  with  the  boy.  And  she  thought  she  had 
been  lenient.  She  could  not  understand  his  moods  of  des- 
perate silence,  the  bitter,  biting  remarks  he  sometimes  dropped, 
his  evident  annoyance  if  she  went  over  to  join  him  in  the 
timber  claim  when  he  lay  there  idle  in  the  deep  grass  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon. 

Claude  used  to  lie  there  and  watch  the  clouds,  saying  to 
himself,  "It's  the  end  of  everything  for  me."  Other  men 
than  he  must  have  been  disappointed,  and  he  wondered  how 
they  bore  it  through  a  lifetime.  Claude  had  been  a  well- 
behaved  boy  because  he  was  an  idealist ;  he  had  looked  forward 
to  being  wonderfully  happy  in  love,  and  to  deserving  his 
happiness.  He  had  never  dreamed  that  it  might  be  other- 
wise. 

Sometimes  now,  when  he  went  out  into  the  fields  on  a 
bright  summer  morning,  it  seemed  to  him  that  Nature  not  only 
smiled,  but  broadly  laughed  at  him.  He  suffered  in  his  pride, 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  21 1 

but  even  more  in  his  ideals,  in  his  vague  sense  of  what  was 
beautiful.  Enid  could  make  his  life  hideous  to  him  without 
ever  knowing  it.  At  such  times  he  hated  himself  for  accepting 
at  all  her  grudging  hospitality.  He  was  wronging  something  in 
himself. 

In  her  person  Enid  was  still  attractive  to  him.  He  won- 
dered why  she  had  no  shades  of  feeling  to  correspond  to  her 
natural  grace  and  lightness  of  movement,  to  the  gentle,  almost 
wistful  attitudes  of  body  in  which  he  sometimes  surprised  her. 
When  he  came  in  from  work  and  found  her  sitting  on  the 
porch,  leaning  against  a  pillar,  her  hands  clasped  about  her 
knees,  her  head  drooping  a  little,  he  could  scarcely  believe 
in  the  rigidity  which  met  him  at  every  turn.  Was  there  some- 
thing repellent  in  him?  Was  it,  after  all,  his  fault? 

Enid  was  rather  more  indulgent  with  his  father  than  with 
any  one  else,  he  noticed.  Mr.  Wheeler  stopped  to  see  her 
almost  every  day,  and  even  took  her  driving  in  his  old  buck- 
board.  Bayliss  came  out  from  town  to  spend  the  evening 
occasionally.  Enid's  vegetarian  suppers  suited  him,  and  as 
she  worked  with  him  in  the  Prohibition  campaign,  they  always 
had  business  to  discuss.  Bayliss  had  a  social  as  well  as  a 
hygienic  prejudice  against  alcohol,  and  he  hated  it  less  for  the 
harm  it  did  than  for  the  pleasure  it  gave.  Claude  consistently 
refused  to  take  any  part  in  the  activities  of  the  Anti-Saloon 
League,  or  to  distribute  what  Bayliss  and  Enid  called  "our 
literature." 

In  the  farming  towns  the  term  "literature"  was  applied 
only  to  a  special  kind  of  printed  matter;  there  was  Pro- 
hibition literature,  Sex-Hygiene  literature,  and,  during  a 
scourge  of  cattle  disease,  there  was  Hoof-and-Mouth  lit- 


212  One  of  Ours 


erature.  This  special  application  of  the  word  didn't  bother 
Claude,  but  his  mother,  being  an  old-fashioned  school-teacher, 
complained  about  it. 

Enid  did  not  understand  her  husband's  indifference  to  a 
burning  question,  and  could  only  attribute  it  to  the  influence 
of  Ernest  Havel.  She  sometimes  asked  Claude  to  go  with 
her  to  one  of  her  committee  meetings.  If  it  was  a  Sunday, 
he  said  he  was  tired  and  wanted  to  read  the  paper.  If  it  was 
a  week-day,  he  had  something  to  do  at  the  barn,  or  meant  to 
clear  out  the  timber  claim.  He  did,  indeed,  saw  off  a  few 
dead  limbs,  and  cut  down  a  tree  the  lightning  had  blasted. 
Further  than  that  he  wouldn't  have  let  anybody  clear  the 
timber  lot;  he  would  have  died  defending  it. 

The  timber  claim  was  his  refuge.  In  the  open,  grassy  spots, 
shut  in  by  the  bushy  walls  of  yellowing  ash  trees,  he  felt  un- 
married and  free;  free  to  smoke  as  much  as  he  liked,  and  to 
read  and  dream.  Some  of  his  dreams  would  have  frozen  his 
young  wife's  blood  with  horror  —  and  some  would  have 
melted  his  mother's  heart  with  pity.  To  lie  in  the  hot  sun 
and  look  up  at  the  stainless  blue  of  the  autumn  sky,  to  hear 
the  dry  rustle  of  the  leaves  as  they  fell,  and  the  sound  of  the 
bold  squirrels  leaping  from  branch  to  branch ;  to  lie  thus  and 
let  his  imagination  play  with  life  —  that  was  the  best  he  could 
do.  His  thoughts,  he  told  himself,  were  his  own.  He  was 
no  longer  a  boy.  He  went  off  into  the  timber  claim  to  meet 
a  young  man  more  experienced  and  interesting  than  himself, 
who  had  not  tied  himself  up  with  compromises. 


IV 

FROM   her   upstairs   window   Mrs.   Wheeler   could   see 
Claude  moving  back  and  forth  in  the  west  field,  drilling 
wheat.     She  felt  lonely  for  him.     He  didn't  come  home 
as  often  as  he  might.     She  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  he 
was  one  of  those  people  who  are  always  discontented ;  but  what- 
ever his  disappointments  were,  he  kept  them  locked  in  his  own 
breast.     One  had  to  learn  the  lessons  of  life.     Nevertheless, 
it  made  her  a  little  sad  to  see  him  so  settled  and  indifferent 
at  twenty-three. 

After  watching  from  the  window  for  a  few  moments,  she 
turned  to  the  telephone  and  called  up  Claude's  house,  asking 
Enid  whether  she  would  mind  if  he  came  there  for  dinner. 
"Mahailey  and  I  get  lonesome  with  Mr.  Wheeler  away  so 
much,"  she  added. 

"Why,  no,  Mother  Wheeler,  of  course  not."  Enid  spoke 
cheerfully,  as  she  always  did.  "Have  you  any  one  there  you 
can  send  over  to  tell  him?" 

"I  thought  I  would  walk  over  myself,  Enid.  It's  not  far, 
if  I  take  my  time." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  left  the  house  a  little  before  noon  and  stopped 
at  the  creek  to  rest  before  she  climbed  the  long  hill.  At  the 
edge  of  the  field  she  sat  down  against  a  grassy  bank  and  waited 
until  the  horses  came  tramping  up  the  long  rows.  Claude  saw 
her  and  pulled  them  in. 

"Anything  wrong,  Mother?"  he  called. 

"Oh,  no !  I'm  going  to  take  you  home  for  dinner  with  me, 
that's  all.  I  telephoned  Enid." 

213 


214  One  of  Ours 


He  unhooked  his  team,  and  he  and  his  mother  started  down 
the  hill  together,  walking  behind  the  horses.  Though  they  had 
not  been  alone  like  this  for  a  long  while,  she  felt  it  best  to  talk 
about  impersonal  things. 

"Don't  let  me  forget  to  give  you  an  article  about  the  execu- 
tion of  that  English  nurse." 

"Edith  Cavell?  I've  read  about  it,"  he  answered  listlessly. 
"It's  nothing  to  be  surprised  at.  If  they  could  sink  the 
Lusitania,  they  could  shoot  an  English  nurse,  certainly." 

"Someway  I  feel  as  if  this  were  different,"  his  mother 
murmured.  "It's  like  the  hanging  of  John  Brown.  I  wonder 
they  could  find  soldiers  to  execute  the  sentence." 

"Oh,  I  guess  they  have  plenty  of  such  soldiers!" 

Mrs.  Wheeler  looked  up  at  him.  "I  don't  see  how  we  can 
stay  out  of  it  much  longer,  do  you?  I  suppose  our  army 
wouldn't  be  a  drop  in  the  bucket,  even  if  we  could  get  it  over. 
They  tell  us  we  can  be  more  useful  in  our  agriculture  and 
manufactories  than  we  could  by  going  into  the  war.  I 
only  hope  it  isn't  campaign  talk.  I  do  distrust  the  Demo- 
crats." 

Claude  laughed.  "Why,  Mother,  I  guess  there's  no  party 
politics  in  this." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I've  never  yet  found  a  public  ques- 
tion in  which  there  wasn't  party  politics.  Well,  we  can  only 
do  our  duty  as  it  comes  to  us,  and  have  faith.  This  field 
finishes  your  fall  work?" 

"Yes.  I'll  have  time  to  do  some  things  about  the  place, 
now.  I'm  going  to  make  a  good  ice-house  and  put  up  my  own 
ice  this  winter." 

"Were  you  thinking  of  going  up  to  Lincoln,  for  a  little  ?'* 

"I  guess  not." 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  215 

Mrs.  Wheeler  sighed.  His  tone  meant  that  he  had  turned 
his  back  on  old  pleasures  and  old  friends. 

"Have  you  and  Enid  taken  tickets  for  the  lecture  course  in 
Frankfort?" 

"I  think  so,  Mother/'  he  answered  a  little  impatiently.  "I 
told  her  she  could  attend  to  it  when  she  was  in  town  some  day." 

"Of  course,"  his  mother  persevered,  "some  of  the  programs 
are  not  very  good,  but  we  ought  to  patronize  them  and  make 
the  best  of  what  we  have." 

He  knew,  and  his  mother  knew,  that  he  was  not  very  good 
at  that.  His  horses  stopped  at  the  water  tank.  "Don't 
wait  for  me.  I'll  be  along  in  a  minute."  Seeing  her  crest- 
fallen face,  he  smiled.  "Never  mind,  Mother,  I  can  always 
catch  you  when  you  try  to  give  me  a  pill  in  a  raisin.  One  of 
us  has  to  be  pretty  smart  to  fool  the  other." 

She  blinked  up  at  him  with  that  smile  in  which  her  eyes 
almost  disappeared.  "I  thought  I  was  smart  that  time !" 

It  was  a  comfort,  she  reflected,  as  she  hurried  up  the  hill, 
to  get  hold  of  him  again,  to  get  his  attention,  even. 

While  Claude  was  washing  for  dinner,  Mahailey  came  to  him 
with  a  page  of  newspaper  cartoons,  illustrating  German  brutal- 
ity. To  her  they  were  all  photographs, —  she  knew  no  other 
way  of  making  a  picture. 

"Mr.  Claude,"  she  asked,  "how  comes  it  all  them  Germans  is 
such  ugly  lookin'  people?  The  Yoeders  and  the  German  folks 
round  here  ain't  ugly  lookin3." 

Claude  put  her  off  indulgently.  "Maybe  it's  the  ugly  ones 
that  are  doing  the  fighting,  and  the  ones  at  home  are  nice, 
like  our  neighbours." 

"Then  why  don't  they  make  their  soldiers  stay  home,  an' 
not  go  breakin'  other  people's  things,  an'  turnin'  'em  out  of 


216  One  of  Ours 


their  houses,"  she  muttered  indignantly.  "They  say  little 
babies  was  born  out  in  the  snow  last  winter,  an'  no  fires  for 
their  mudders  nor  nothin'.  'Deed,  Mr.  Claude,  it  wasn't  like 
that  in  our  war ;  the  soldiers  didn't  do  nothin'  to  the  women 
an'  chillun.  Many  a  time  our  house  was  full  of  Northern 
soldiers,  an'  they  never  so  much  as  broke  a  piece  of  my 
mudder's  chiney." 

"You'll  have  to  tell  me  about  it  again  sometime,  Mahailey. 
I  must  have  my  dinner  and  get  back  to  work.  If  we  don't  get 
our  wheat  in,  those  people  over  there  won't  have  anything  to 
eat,  you  know." 

The  picture  papers  meant  a  great  deal  to  Mahailey,  because 
she  could  faintly  remember  the  Civil  War.  While  she  pored 
over  photographs  of  camps  and  battlefields  and  devastated 
villages,  things  came  back  to  her ;  the  companies  of  dusty  Union 
infantry  that  used  to  stop  to  drink  at  her  mother's  cold  moun- 
tain spring.  She  had  seen  them  take  off  their  boots  and  wash 
their  bleeding  feet  in  the  run.  Her  mother  had  given  one 
louse-bitten  boy  a  clean  shirt,  and  she  had  never  forgotten  the 
sight  of  his  back,  "as  raw  as  beef  where  he'd  scratched  it." 
Five  of  her  brothers  were  in  the  Rebel  army.  When  one  was 
wounded  in  the  second  battle  of  Bull's  Run,  her  mother  had 
borrowed  a  wagon  and  horses,  gone  a  three  days'  journey  to 
the  field  hospital,  and  brought  the  boy  home  to  the  mountain. 
Mahailey  could  remember  how  her  older  sisters  took  turns 
pouring  cold  spring  water  on  his  gangrenous  leg  all  day  and 
all  night.  There  were  no  doctors  left  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  as  nobody  could  amputate  the  boy's  leg,  he  died  by  inches. 
Mahailey  was  the  only  person  in  the  Wheeler  'household  who 
had  ever  seen  war  with  her  own  eyes,  and  she  felt  that  this 
fact  gave  her  a  definite  superiority. 


CLAUDE  had  been  married  a  year  and  a  half.     One 
December  morning  he  got  a  telephone  message  from 
his  father-in-law,  asking  him  to  come  in  to  Frankfort 
at  once.     He  found  Mr.  Royce  sunk  in  his  desk-chair,  smoking 
as   usual,    with    several    foreign-looking    letters    on    the   table 
before  him.     As  he  took  these   out  of   their  envelopes   and 
sorted  the  pages,  Claude  noticed  how  unsteady  his  hands  had 
become. 

One  letter,  from  the  chief  of  the  medical  staff  in  the  mission 
school  where  Caroline  Royce  taught,  informed  Mr.  Royce  that 
his  daughter  was  seriously  ill  in  the  mission  hospital.  She 
would  have  to  be  sent  to  a  more  salubrious  part  of  the  country 
for  rest  and  treatment,  and  would  not  be  strong  enough  to 
return  to  her  duties  for  a  year  or  more.  If  some  member  of 
her  family  could  come  out  to  take  care  of  her,  it  would  relieve 
the  school  authorities  of  great  anxiety.  There  was  also  a 
letter  from  a  fellow  teacher,  and  a  rather  incoherent  one  from 
Caroline  herself.  After  Claude  finished  reading  them,  Mr. 
Royce  pushed  a  box  of  cigars  toward  him  and  began  to  talk 
despondently  about  missionaries. 

"I  could  go  to  her,"  he  complained,  "but  what  good  would 
that  do?  I'm  not  in  sympathy  with  her  ideas,  and  it  would 
only  fret  her.  You  can  see  she's  made  her  mind  up  not  to 
come  home.  I  don't  believe  in  one  people  trying  to  force 
their  ways  or  their  religion  on  another.  I'm  not  that  kind  of 
man."  He  sat  looking  at  his  cigar.  After  a  long  pause  he 

217 


218  One  of  Ours 


broke  out  suddenly,  "China  has  been  drummed  into  my  ears 
...  It  seems  like  a  long  way  to  go  to  hunt  for  trouble, 
don't  it?  A  man  hasn't  got  much  control  over  his  own  life, 
Claude.  If  it  ain't  poverty  or  disease  that  torments  him,  it's 
a  name  on  the  map.  I  could  have  made  out  pretty  well,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  China,  and  some  other  things.  ...  If  Carrie'd 
had  to  teach  for  her  clothes  and  help  pay  off  my  notes,  like  old 
man  Harrison's  daughters,  like  enough  she'd  have  stayed  at 
home.  There's  always  something.  I  don't  know  what  to  say 
about  showing  these  letters  to  Enid." 

"Oh,  she  will  have  to  know  about  it,  Mr.  Royce.  If  she 
feels  that  she  ought  to  go  to  Carrie,  it  wouldn't  be  right  for 
me  to  interfere." 

Mr.  Royce  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know.  It  don't  seem 
fair  that  China  should  hang  over  you,  too." 

When  Claude  got  home  he  remarked  as  he  handed  Enid 
the  letters,  "Your  father  has  been  a  good  deal  upset  by  this. 
I  never  saw  him  look  so  old  as  he  did  today." 

Enid  studied  their  contents,  sitting  at  her  orderly  little  desk, 
while  Claude  pretended  to  read  the  paper. 

"It  seems  clear  that  I  am  the  one  to  go,"  she  said  when 
she  had  finished. 

"You  think  it's  necessary  for  some  one  to  go?  I  don't 
see  it." 

"It  would  look  very  strange  if  none  of  us  went,"  Enid 
replied  with  spirit. 

"How,  look  strange?" 

"Why,  it  would  look  to  her  associates  as  if  her  family  had 
no  feeling." 

"Oh,  if  that's  all!"  Claude  smiled  perversely  and  took  up 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  219 

his  paper  again.  "I  wonder  how  it  will  look  to  people  here 
if  you  go  off  and  leave  your  husband?" 

"What  a  mean  thing  to  say,  Claude!"  She  rose  sharply, 
then  hesitated,  perplexed.  "People  here  know  me  better  than 
that.  It  isn't  as  if  you  couldn't  be  perfectly  comfortable  at 
your  mother's."  As  he  did  not  glance  up  from  his  paper,  she 
went  into  the  kitchen. 

Claude  sat  still,  listening  to  Enid's  quick  movements  as  she 
opened  up  the  range  to  get  supper.  The  light  in  the  room 
grew  greyer.  Outside  the  fields  melted  into  one  another  as 
evening  came  on.  The  young  trees  in  the  yard  bent  and 
whipped  about  under  a  bitter  north  wind.  He  had  often 
thought  with  pride  that  winter  died  at  his  front  doorstep; 
within,  no  draughty  halls,  no  chilly  corners.  This  was  their 
second  year  here.  When  he  was  driving  home,  the  thought 
that  he  might  be  free  of  this  house  for  a  long  while  had  stirred 
a  pleasant  excitement  in  him;  but  now,  he  didn't  want  to 
leave  it.  Something  grew  soft  in  him.  He  wondered  whether 
they  couldn't  try  again,  and  make  things  go  better.  Enid  was 
singing  in  the  kitchen  in  a  subdued,  rather  lonely  voice.  He 
rose  and  went  out  for  his  milking  coat  and  pail.  As  he 
passed  his  wife  by  the  window,  he  stopped  and  put  his  arm 
about  her  questioningly. 

She  looked  up.  "That's  right.  You're  feeling  better  about 
it,  aren't  you  ?  I  thought  you  would.  Gracious,  what  a  smelly 
coat,  Claude!  I  must  find  another  for  you." 

Claude  knew  that  tone.  Enid  never  questioned  the  right- 
ness  of  her  own  decisions.  When  she  made  up  her  mind, 
there  was  no  turning  her.  He  went  down  the  path  to  the 
barn  with  his  hands  stuffed  in  his  trousers  pockets,  his  bright 
pail  hanging  on  his  arm.  Try  again  —  what  was  there  to  try  ? 


22O  One  of  Ours 


Platitudes,  littleness,  falseness.  .  .  .  His  life  was  choking  him, 
and  he  hadn't  the  courage  to  break  with  it.  Let  her  go !  Let 
her  go  when  she  would !  .  .  .  What  a  hideous  world  to  be  born 
into!  Or  was  it  hideous  only  for  him?  Everything  he 
touched  went  wrong  under  his  hand  —  always  had. 

When  they  sat  down  at  the  supper  table  in  the  back  parlour 
an  hour  later,  Enid  looked  worn,  as  if  this  time  her  decision 
had  cost  her  something.  "I  should  think  you  might  have  a 
restful  winter  at  your  mother's,"  she  began  cheerfully.  "You 
won't  have  nearly  so  much  to  look  after  as  you  do  here.  We 
needn't  disturb  things  in  this  house.  I  will  take  the  silver 
down  to  Mother,  and  we  can  leave  everything  else  just  as  it 
is.  Would  there  be  room  for  my  car  in  your  father's  garage  ? 
You  might  find  it  a  convenience." 

"Oh,  no !  I  won't  need  it.  I'll  put  it  up  at  the  mill  house," 
he  answered  with  an  effort  at  carelessness. 

All  the  familiar  objects  that  stood  about  them  in  the  lamp- 
light seemed  stiller  and  more  solemn  than  usual,  as  if  they 
were  holding  their  breath. 

"I  suppose  you  had  better  take  the  chickens  over  to  your 
mother's,"  Enid  continued  evenly.  "But  I  shouldn't  like  them 
to  get  mixed  with  her  Plymouth  Rocks;  there's  not  a  dark 
feather  among  them  now.  Do  ask  Mother  Wheeler  to  use  all 
the  eggs,  and  not  to  let  my  hens  set  in  the  spring." 

"In  the  spring?"  Claude  looked  up  from  his  plate. 

"Of  course,  Claude.  I  could  hardly  get  back  before 
next  fall,  if  I'm  to  be  of  any  help  to  poor  Carrie.  I  might 
try  to  be  home  for  harvest,  if  that  would  make  it  more  conven- 
ient for  you."  She  rose  to  bring  in  the  dessert. 

"Oh,  don't  hurry  on  my  account !"  he  muttered,  staring 
after  her  disappearing  figure. 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  221 

Enid  came  back  with  the  hot  pudding  and  the  after-dinner 
coffee  things.  "This  has  come  on  us  so  suddenly  that  we  must 
make  our  plans  at  once,"  she  explained.  "I  should  think  your 
mother  would  be  glad  to  keep  Rose  for  us ;  she  is  such  a  good 
cow.  And  then  you  can  have  all  the  cream  you  want." 

He  took  the  little  gold-rimmed  cup  she  held  out  to  him. 
"If  you  are  going  to  be  gone  until  next  fall,  I  shall  sell  Rose," 
he  announced  gruffly. 

"But  why?  You  might  look  a  long  time  before  you  found 
another  like  her." 

"I  shall  sell  her,  anyhow.  The  horses,  of  course,  are 
Father's;  he  paid  for  them.  If  you  clear  out,  he  may  want 
to  rent  this  place.  You  may  find  a  tenant  in  here  when  you 
get  back  from  China."  Claude  swallowed  his  coffee,  put 
down  the  cup,  and  went  into  the  front  parlour,  where  he  lit  a 
cigar.  He  walked  up  and  down,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
his  wife,  who  still  sat  at  the  table  in  the  circle  of  light  from 
the  hanging  lamp.  Her  head,  bent  forward  a  little,  showed 
the  neat  part  of  her  brown  hair.  When  she  was  perplexed, 
her  face  always  looked  sharper,  her  chin  longer. 

"If  you've  no  feeling  for  the  place,"  said  Claude  from  the 
other  room,  "you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  hang  around  and 
take  care  of  it.  All  the  time  you  were  campaigning,  I  played 
housekeeper  here." 

Enid's  eyes  narrowed,  but  she  did  not  flush.  Claude  had 
never  seen  a  wave  of  colour  come  over  his  wife's  pale,  smooth 
cheeks. 

"Don't  be  childish.  You  know  I  care  for  this  place;  it's 
our  home.  But  no  feeling  would  be  right  that  kept  me  from 
doing  my  duty.  You  are  well,  and  you  have  your  mother's 
house  to  go  to.  Carrie  is  ill  and  among  strangers." 


222  One  of  Ours 


She  began  to  gather  up  the  dishes.  Claude  stepped  quickly 
out  into  the  light  and  confronted  her.  "It's  not  only  your 
going.  You  know  what's  the  matter  with  me.  It's  because 
you  want  to  go.  You  are  glad  of  a  chance  to  get  away  among 
all  those  preachers,  with  their  smooth  talk  and  make-believe." 

Enid  took  up  the  tray.  "If  I  am  glad,  it's  because  you 
are  not  willing  to  govern  our  lives  by  Christian  ideals.  There 
is  something  in  you  that  rebels  all  the  time.  So  many  impor- 
tant questions  have  come  up  since  our  marriage,  and  you  have 
been  indifferent  or  sarcastic  about  every  one  of  them.  You 
want  to  lead  a  purely  selfish  life." 

She  walked  resolutely  out  of  the  room  and  shut  the  door 
behind  her.  Later,  when  she  came  back,  Claude  was  not  there. 
His  hat  and  coat  were  gone  from  the  hatrack;  he  must  have 
let  himself  out  quietly  by  the  front  door.  Enid  sat  up  until 
eleven  and  then  went  to  bed. 

In  the  morning,  on  coming  out  from  her  bedroom,  she  found 
Claude  asleep  on  the  lounge,  dressed,  with  his  overcoat  on. 
She  had  a  moment  of  terror  and  bent  over  him,  but  she  could 
not  detect  any  smell  of  spirits.  She  began  preparations  for 
breakfast,  moving  quietly. 

Having  once  made  up  her  mind  to  go  out  to  her  sister, 
Enid  lost  no  time.  She  engaged  passage  and  cabled  the  mis- 
sion school.  She  left  Frankfort  the  week  before  Christ- 
mas. Claude  and  Ralph  took  her  as  far  as  Denver  and  put 
her  on  a  trans-continental  express.  When  Claude  came  home, 
he  moved  over  to  his  mother's,  and  sold  his  cow  and  chickens 
to  Leonard  Dawson.  Except  when  he  went  to  see  Mr.  Royce, 
he  seldom  left  the  farm  now,  and  he  avoided  the  neighbours. 
He  felt  that  they  were  discussing  his  domestic  affairs, —  as, 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  223 

of  course,  they  were.  The  Royces  and  the  Wheelers,  they  said, 
couldn't  behave  like  anybody  else,  and  it  was  no  use  their 
trying.  If  Claude  built  the  best  house  in  the  neighbourhood, 
he  just  naturally  wouldn't  live  in  it.  And  if  he  had  a  wife 
at  all,  it  was  like  him  to  have  a  wife  in  China ! 

One  snowy  day,  when  nobody  was  about,  Claude  took  the 
big  car  and  went  over  to  his  own  place  to  close  the  house 
for  the  winter  and  bring  away  the  canned  fruit  and  vegetables 
left  in  the  cellar.  Enid  had  packed  her  best  linen  in  her  cedar 
chest  and  had  put  the  kitchen  and  china  closets  in  scrupulous 
order  before  she  went  away.  He  began  covering  the  uphol- 
stered chairs  and  the  mattresses  with  sheets,  rolled  up  the  rugs, 
and  fastened  the  windows  securely.  As  he  worked,  his  hands 
grew  more  and  more  numb  and  listless,  and  his  heart  was  like  a 
lump  of  ice.  All  these  things  that  he  had  selected  with  care 
and  in  which  he  had  taken  such  pride,  were  no  more  to  him  now 
than  the  lumber  piled  in  the  shop  of  any  second-hand  dealer. 

How  inherently  mournful  and  ugly  such  objects  were,  when 
the  feeling  that  had  made  them  precious  no  longer  existed ! 
The  debris  of  human  life  was  more  worthless  and  ugly  than 
the  dead  and  decaying  things  in  nature.  Rubbish  .  .  .  junk 
...  his  mind  could  not  picture  anything  that  so  exposed  and 
condemned  all  the  dreary,  weary,  ever-repeated  actions  by 
which  life  is  continued  from  day  to  day.  Actions  without 
meaning.  .  .  .  As  he  looked  out  and  saw  the  grey  landscape 
through  the  gently  falling  snow,  he  could  not  help  thinking 
how  much  better  it  would  be  if  people  could  go  to  sleep  like 
the  fields;  could  be  blanketed  down  under  the  snow,  to  wake 
with  their  hurts  healed  and  their  defeats  forgotten.  He  won- 
dered how  he  was  to  go  on  through  the  years  ahead  of  him, 
unless  he  could  get  rid  of  this  sick  feeling  in  his  soul. 


224  One  of  Ours 


At  last  he  locked  the  door,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  and 
went  over  to  the  timber  claim  to  smoke  a  cigar  and  say  good- 
bye to  the  place.  There  he  soberly  walked  about  for  more 
than  an  hour,  under  the  crooked  trees  with  empty  birds'  nests 
in  their  forks.  Every  time  he  came  to  a  break  in  the  hedge, 
he  could  see  the  little  house,  giving  itself  up  so  meekly  to 
solitude.  He  did  not  believe  that  he  would  ever  live  there 
again.  Well,  at  any  rate,  the  money  his  father  had  put  into 
the  place  would  not  be  lost;  he  could  always  get  a  better 
tenant  for  having  a  comfortable  house  there.  Several  of  the 
boys  in  the  neighbourhood  were  planning  to  be  married  within 
the  year.  The  future  of  the  house  was  safe.  And  he?  He 
stopped  short  in  his  walk;  his  feet  had  made  an  uncertain, 
purposeless  trail  all  over  the  white  ground.  It  vexed  him  to 
see  his  own  footsteps.  What  was  it  —  what  was  the  matter 
with  him  ?  Why,  at  least,  could  he  not  stop  feeling  things,  and 
hoping?  What  was  there  to  hope  for  now? 

He  heard  a  sound  of  distress,  and  looking  back,  saw  the 
barn  cat,  that  had  been  left  behind  to  pick  up  her  living.  She 
was  standing  inside  the  hedge,  her  jet  black  fur  ruffled  against 
the  wet  flakes,  one  paw  lifted,  mewing  miserably.  Claude 
went  over  and  picked  her  up. 

"What's  the  matter,  Blackie?  Mice  getting  scarce  in  the 
barn?  Mahailey  will  say  you  are  bad  luck.  Maybe  you  are, 
but  you  can't  help  it,  can  you?"  He  slipped  her  into  his 
overcoat  pocket.  Later,  when  he  was  getting  into  his  car,  he 
tried  to  dislodge  her  and  put  her  in  a  basket,  but  she  clung  to 
her  nest  in  his  pocket  and  dug  her  claws  into  the  lining. 
He  laughed.  "Well,  if  you  are  bad  luck,  I  guess  you  are 
going  to  stay  right  with  me!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  startled  yellow  eyes  and  did 
not  even  mew. 


VI 


MRS.  WHEELER  was  afraid  that  Claude  might  not 
find  the  old  place  comfortable,  after  having  had  a 
house  of  his  own.     She  put  her  best  rocking  chair 
and  a  reading  lamp  in  his  bedroom.     He  often  sat  there  all 
evening,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  pretending  to  read. 
When   he   stayed    downstairs   after   supper,   his   mother    and 
Mahailey    were    grateful.     Besides    collecting    war    pictures, 
Mahailey  now  hunted  through  the  old  magazines  in  the  attic 
for  pictures  of  China.     She  had  marked  on  her  big  kitchen 
calendar  the  day  when  Enid  would  arrive  in  Hong-Kong. 

"Mr.  Claude,"  she  would  say  as  she  stood  at  the  sink 
washing  the  supper  dishes,  "it's  broad  daylight  over  where 
Miss  Enid  is,  ain't  it?  Cause  the  world's  round,  an'  the  old 
sun,  he's  a-shinin'  over  there  for  the  yaller  people." 

From  time  to  time,  when  they  were  working  together,  Mrs. 
Wheeler  told  Mahailey  what  she  knew  about  the  customs  of 
the  Chinese.  The  old  woman  had  never  had  two  impersonal 
interests  at  the  same  time  before,  and  she  scarcely  knew  what 
to  do  with  them.  She  would  murmur  on,  half  to  Claude  and 
half  to  herself :  "They  ain't  fightin'  over  there  where  Miss 
Enid  is,  is  they?  An'  she  won't  have  to  wear  their  kind  of 
clothes,  cause  she's  a  white  woman.  She  won't  let  'em  kill 
their  girl  babies  nor  do  such  awful  things  like  they  always 
have,  an'  she  won't  let  'em  pray  to  them  stone  iboles,  cause 
they  can't  help  'em  none.  I  'spect  Miss  Enid'll  do  a  heap 
of  good,  all  the  time." 

225 


226  One  of  Ours 


Behind  her  diplomatic  monologues,  however,  Mahailey  had 
her  own  ideas,  and  she  was  greatly  scandalized  at  Enid's 
departure.  She  was  afraid  people  would  say  that  Claude's 
wife  had  "run  off  an'  lef  him,"  and  in  the  Virginia  mountains, 
where  her  social  standards  had  been  formed,  a  husband  or  wife 
thus  deserted  was  the  object  of  boisterous  ridicule.  She  once 
stopped  Mrs.  Wheeler  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  cellar  to 
whisper,  "Mr.  Claude's  wife  ain't  goin'  to  stay  off  there,  like 
her  sister,  is  she?" 

If  one  of  the  Yoeder  boys  or  Susie  Dawson  happened  to  be 
at  the  Wheelers'  for  dinner,  Mahailey  never  failed  to  refer  to 
Enid  in  a  loud  voice.  "Mr.  Claude's  wife,  she  cuts  her 
potatoes  up  raw  in  the  pan  an'  fries  'em.  She  don't  boil  'em 
first  like  I  do.  I  know  she's  an  awful  good  cook,  I  know 
she  is."  She  felt  that  easy  references  to  the  absent  wife  made 
things  look  better. 

Ernest  Havel  came  to  see  Claude  now,  but  not  often.  They 
both  felt  it  would  be  indelicate  to  renew  their  former  intimacy. 
Ernest  still  felt  aggrieved  about  his  beer,  as  if  Enid  had 
snatched  the  tankard  from  his  lips  with  her  own  corrective  hand. 
Like  Leonard,  he  believed  that  Claude  had  made  a  bad  bargain 
in  matrimony;  but  instead  of  feeling  sorry  for  him,  Ernest 
wanted  to  see  him  convinced  and  punished.  When  he  married 
Enid,  Claude  had  been  false  to  liberal  principles,  and  it  was 
only  right  that  he  should  pay  for  his  apostacy.  The  very 
first  time  he  came  to  spend  an  evening  at  the  Wheelers'  after 
Claude  came  home  to  live,  Ernest  undertook  to  explain  his 
objections  to  Prohibition.  Claude  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Why  not  drop  it?  It's  a  matter  that  doesn't  interest  me, 
one  way  or  the  other." 

Ernest  was  offended  and  did  not  come  back  for  nearly  a 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  227 

month  —  not,  indeed,  until  the  announcement  that  Germany 
would  resume  unrestricted  submarine  warfare  made  every  one 
look  questioningly  at  his  neighbour. 

He  walked  into  the  Wheelers'  kitchen  the  night  after  this 
news  reached  the  farming  country,  and  found  Claude  and 
his  mother  sitting  at  the  table,  reading  the  papers  aloud  to 
each  other  in  snatches.  Ernest  had  scarcely  taken  a  seat  when 
the  telephone  bell  rang.  Claude  answered  the  call. 

"It's  the  telegraph  operator  at  Frankfort,"  he  said,  as  he 
hung  up  the  receiver.  "He  repeated  a  message  from  Father, 
sent  from  Wray:  Will  be  home  day  after  tomorrow.  Read 
the  papers.  What  does  he  mean?  What  does  he  suppose 
we  are  doing?" 

"It  means  he  considers  our  situation  very  serious.  It's  not 
like  him  to  telegraph  except  in  case  of  illness."  Mrs.  Wheeler 
rose  and  walked  distractedly  to  the  telephone  box,  as  if  it 
might  further  disclose  her  husband's  state  of  mind. 

"But  what  a  queer  message !  It  was  addressed  to  you,  too, 
Mother,  not  to  me." 

"He  would  know  how  I  feel  about  it.  Some  of  your 
father's  people  were  sea-going  men,  out  of  Portsmouth.  He 
knows  what  it  means  when  our  shipping  is  told  where  it  can 
go  on  the  ocean,  and  where  it  cannot.  It  isn't  possible  that 
Washington  can  take  such  an  affront  for  us.  To  think  that 
at  this  time,  of  all  times,  we  should  have  a  Democratic  admin- 
istration !" 

Claude  laughed.  "Sit  down,  Mother.  Wait  a  day  or  two. 
Give  them  time." 

"The  war  will  be  over  before  Washington  can  do  anything, 
Mrs.  Wheeler,"  Ernest  declared  gloomily,  "England  will  be 
starved  out,  and  France  will  be  beaten  to  a  standstill.  The 


228  One  of  Ours 


whole  German  army  will  be  on  the  Western  front  now.  What 
could  this  country  do?  How  long  do  you  suppose  it  takes 
to  make  an  army?" 

Mrs.  Wheeler  stopped  short  in  her  restless  pacing  and  met 
his  moody  glance.  "I  don't  know  anything,  Ernest,  but  I 
believe  the  Bible.  I  believe  that  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
we  shall  be  changed !" 

Ernest  looked  at  the  floor.  He  respected  faith.  As  he 
said,  you  must  respect  it  or  despise  it,  for  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do. 

Claude  sat  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table.  "It  always 
comes  back  to  the  same  thing,  Mother.  Even  if  a  raw  army 
could  do  anything,  how  would  we  get  it  over  there?  Here's 
one  naval  authority  who  says  the  Germans  are  turning  out 
submarines  at  the  rate  of  three  a  day.  They  probably  didn't 
spring  this  on  us  until  they  had  enough  built  to  keep  the 
ocean  clean." 

"I  don't  pretend  to  say  what  we  could  accomplish,  son. 
But  we  must  stand  somewhere,  morally.  They  have  told  us 
all  along  that  we  could  be  more  helpful  to  the  Allies  out  of 
the  war  than  in  it,  because  we  could  send  munitions  and 
supplies.  If  we  agree  to  withdraw  that  aid,  where  are  we? 
Helping  Germany,  all  the  time  we  are  pretending  to  mind  our 
own  business!  If  our  only  alternative  is  to  be  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea,  we  had  better  be  there!" 

"Mother,  do  sit  down !  We  can't  settle  it  tonight.  I  never 
saw  you  so  worked  up." 

"Your  father  is  worked  up,  too,  or  he  would  never  have 
sent  that  telegram."  Mrs.  Wheeler  reluctantly  took  up  her 
workbasket,  and  the  boys  talked  with  their  old,  easy  friend- 
liness. 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  229 

When  Ernest  left,  Claude  walked  as  far  as  the  Yoeders' 
place  with  him,  and  came  back  across  the  snow-drifted  fields, 
under  the  frosty  brilliance  of  the  winter  stars.  As  he  looked 
up  at  them,  he  felt  more  than  ever  that  they  must  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  fate  of  nations,  and  with  the  incomprehen- 
sible things  that  were  happening  in  the  world.  In  the  ordered 
universe  there  must  be  some  mind  that  read  the  riddle  of  this 
one  unhappy  planet,  that  knew  what  was  forming  in  the  dark 
eclipse  of  this  hour.  A  question  hung  in  the  air;  over  all 
this  quiet  land  about  him,  over  him,  over  his  mother,  even. 
He  was  afraid  for  his  country,  as  he  had  been  that  night  on 
the  State  House  steps  in  Denver,  when  this  war  was  un- 
dreamed of,  hidden  in  the  womb  of  time. 

Claude  and  his  mother  had  not  long  to  wait.  Three  days 
later  they  knew  that  the  German  ambassador  had  been 
dismissed,  and  the  American  ambassador  recalled  from  Berlin. 
To  older  men  these  events  were  subjects  to  think  and  converse 
about;  but  to  boys  like  Claude  they  were  life  and  death, 
predestination. 


VII 

ONE  stormy  morning  Claude  was  driving  the  big  wagon 
to  town  to  get  a  load  of  lumber.  The  roads  were 
beginning  to  thaw  out,  and  the  country  was  black 
and  dirty  looking.  Here  and  there  on  the  dark  mud,  grey  snow 
crusts  lingered,  perforated  like  honeycomb,  with  wet  weed- 
stalks  sticking  up  through  them.  As  the  wagon  creaked  over 
the  high  ground  just  above  Frankfort,  Claude  noticed  a  bril- 
liant new  flag  flying  from  the  schoolhouse  cupola.  He  had 
never  seen  the  flag  before  when  it  meant  anything  but  the 
Fourth  of  July,  or  a  political  rally.  Today  it  was  as  if  he  saw 
it  for  the  first  time ;  no  bands,  no  noise,  no  orators ;  a  spot  of 
restless  colour  against  the  sodden  March  sky. 

He  turned  out  of  his  way  in  order  to  pass  the  High  School, 
drew  up  his  team,  and  waited  a  few  minutes  until  the  noon 
bell  rang.  The  older  boys  and  girls  came  out  first,  with  a 
flurry  of  raincoats  and  umbrellas.  Presently  he  saw  Gladys 
Farmer,  in  a  yellow  "slicker"  and  an  oilskin  hat,  and  waved 
to  her.  She  came  up  to  the  wagon. 

"I  like  your  decoration,"  he  said,  glancing  toward  the  cupola. 

"It's  a  silk  one  the  Senior  boys  bought  with  their  athletic 
money.  I  advised  them  not  to  run  it  up  in  this  rain,  but  the 
class  president  told  me  they  bought  that  flag  for  storms." 

"Get  in,  and  I'll  take  you  home." 

She  took  his  extended  hand,  put  her  foot  on  the  hub  of  the 
wheel,  and  climbed  to  the  seat  beside  him.  He  clucked  to 
his  team. 

230 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  231 

"So  your  High  School  boys  are  feeling  war-like  these  days?" 

"Very.     What  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  they'll  have  a  chance  to  express  their  feelings." 

"Do  you,  Claude?     It  seems  awfully  unreal." 

"Nothing  else  seems  very  real,  either.  I'm  going  to  haul 
out  a  load  of  lumber,  but  I  never  expect  to  drive  a  nail  in  it. 
These  things  don't  matter  now.  There  is  only  one  thing  we 
ought  to  do,  and  only  one  thing  that  matters ;  we  all  know  it." 

"You  feel  it's  coming  nearer  every  day?" 

"Every  day." 

Gladys  made  no  reply.  She  only  looked  at  him  gravely 
with  her  calm,  generous  brown  eyes.  They  stopped  before  the 
low  house  where  the  windows  were  full  of  flowers.  She  took 
his  hand  and  swung  herself  to  the  ground,  holding  it  for  a 
moment  while  she  said  good-bye.  Claude  drove  back  to  the 
lumber  yard.  In  a  place  like  Frankfort,  a  boy  whose  wife 
was  in  China  could  hardly  go  to  see  Gladys  without  making 
talk. 


VIII 

DURING  the  bleak  month  of  March  Mr.  Wheeler 
went  to  town  in  his  buckboard  almost  every  day. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  a  secret  anxiety. 
The  one  member  of  his  family  who  had  never  given  him  the 
slightest  trouble,  his  son  Bayliss,  was  just  now  under  a  cloud. 
Bayliss  was  a  Pacifist,  and  kept  telling  people  that  if  only  the 
United  States  would  stay  out  of  this  war,  and  gather  up  what 
Europe  was  wasting,  she  would  soon  be  in  actual  possession  of 
the  capital  of  the  world.  There  was  a  kind  of  logic  in  Bayliss' 
utterances  that  shook  Nat  Wheeler's  imperturbable  assumption 
that  one  point  of  view  was  as  good  as  another.  When  Bayliss 
fought  the  dram  and  the  cigarette,  Wheeler  only  laughed. 
That  a  son  of  his  should  turn  out  a  Prohibitionist,  was  a  joke 
he  could  appreciate.  But  Bayliss'  attitude  in  the  present  crisis 
disturbed  him.  Day  after  day  he  sat  about  his  son's  place  of 
business,  interrupting  his  arguments  with  funny  stories. 
Bayliss  did  not  go  home  at  all  that  month.  He  said  to  his 
father,  "No,  Mother's  too  violent.  I'd  better  not." 

Claude  and  his  mother  read  the  papers  in  the  evening,  but 
they  talke4  so  little  about  what  they  read  that  Mahailey  in- 
quired anxiously  whether  they  weren't  still  fighting  over  yonder. 
When  she  could  get  Claude  alone  for  a  moment,  she  pulled  out 
Sunday  supplement  pictures  of  the  devastated  countries  and 
asked  him  to  tell  her  what  was  to  become  of  this  family, 
photographed  among  the  ruins  of  their  home ;  of  this  old 
woman,  who  sat  by  the  roadside  with  her  bundles.  "Where's 

232 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  233 

she  goin'  to,  anyways?  See,  Mr.  Claude,  she's  got  her  iron 
cook-pot,  pore  old  thing,  carryin'  it  all  the  way!" 

Pictures  of  soldiers  in  gas-masks  puzzled  her ;  gas  was  some- 
thing she  hadn't  learned  about  in  the  Civil  War,  so  she  worked 
it  out  for  herself  that  these  masks  were  worn  by  the  army 
cooks,  to  protect  their  eyes  when  they  were  cutting  up  onions ! 
"All  them  onions  they  have  to  cut  up,  it  would  put  their  eyes 
out  if  they  didn't  wear  something  she  argued. 

On  the  morning  of  the  eighth  of  April  Claude  came  down- 
stairs early  and  began  to  clean  his  boots,  which  were  caked 
with  dry  mud.  Mahailey  was  squatting  down  beside  her  stove, 
blowing  and  purring  into  it.  The  fire  was  always  slow  to 
start  in  heavy  weather.  Claude  got  an  old  knife  and  a  brush, 
and  putting  his  foot  on  a  chair  over  by  the  west  window, 
began  to  scrape  his  shoe.  He  had  said  good-morning  to 
Mahailey,  nothing  more.  He  hadn't  slept  well,  and  was  pale. 

"Mr.  Claude,"  Mahailey  grumbled,  "this  stove  ain't  never 
drawed  good  like  my  old  one  Mr.  Ralph  took  away  from  me. 
I  can't  do  nothin'  with  it.  Maybe  you'll  clean  it  out  for  me 
next  Sunday." 

"I'll  clean  it  today,  if  you  say  so.  I  won't  be  here  next 
Sunday.  I'm  going  away." 

Something  in  his  tone  made  Mahailey  get  up,  her  eyes  still 
blinking  with  the  smoke,  and  look  at  him  sharply.  "You  ain't 
goin'  off  there  where  Miss  Enid  is?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  Mahailey."  He  had  dropped  the  shoebrush  and  stood 
with  one  foot  on  the  chair,  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  looking  out 
of  the  window  as  if  he  had  forgotten  himself.  "No,  I'm 
not  going  to  China.  I'm  going  over  to  help  fight  the  Ger- 
mans." 

He  was  still  staring  out  at  the  wet  fields.     Before  he  could 


234  One  °f  Ours 


stop  her,  before  he  knew  what  she  was  doing,  she  had  caught 
and  kissed  his  unworthy  hand. 

"I  knowed  you  would,"  she  sobbed.  "I  always  knowed  you 
would,  you  nice  boy,  you  !  Old  Mahail'  knowed  !'7 

Her  upturned  face  was  working  all  over;  her  mouth,  her 
eyebrows,  even  the  wrinkles  on  her  low  forehead  were  working 
and  twitching.  Claude  felt  a  tightening  in  his  throat  as  he 
tenderly  regarded  that  face;  behind  the  pale  eyes,  under  the 
low  brow  where  there  was  not  room  for  many  thoughts,  an 
idea  was  struggling  and  tormenting  her.  The  same  idea  that 
had  been  tormenting  him. 

"You're  all  right,  Mahailey,"  he  muttered,  patting  her  back 
and  turning  away.  "Now  hurry  breakfast." 

"You  ain't  told  your  mudder  yit?"  she  whispered. 

"No,  not  yet.  But  she'll  be  all  right,  too."  He  caught  up 
his  cap  and  went  down  to  the  barn  to  look  after  the  horses. 

When  Claude  returned,  the  family  were  already  at  the  break- 
fast table.  He  slipped  into  his  seat  and  watched  his  mother 
while  she  drank  her  first  cup  of  coffee.  Then  he  addressed 
his  father. 

"Father,  I  don't  see  any  use  of  waiting  for  the  draft.  If 
you  can  spare  me,  I'd  like  to  get  into  a  training  camp  some- 
where. I  believe  I'd  stand  a  chance  of  getting  a  commission." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder."  Mr.  Wheeler  poured  maple  syrup 
on  his  pancakes  with  a  liberal  hand.  "How  do  you  feel  about 
it,  Evangeline?" 

Mrs.  Wheeler  had  quietly  put  down  her  knife  and  fork. 
She  looked  at  her  husband  in  vague  alarm,  while  her  fingers 
moved  restlessly  about  over  the  tablecloth. 

"I  thought,"  Claude  went  on  hastily,  "that  maybe  I  would  go 
up  to  Omaha  tomorrow  and  find  out  where  the  training  camps 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  235 

are  to  be  located,  and  have  a  talk  with  the  men  in  charge  of  the 
enlistment  station.  Of  course/'  he  added  lightly,  "they  may 
not  want  me.  I  haven't  an  idea  what  the  requirements  are." 

"No,  I  don't  understand  much  about  it  either."  Mr.  Wheeler 
rolled  his  top  pancake  and  conveyed  it  to  his  mouth.  After 
a  moment  of  mastication  he  said,  "You  figure  on  going  to- 
morrow?" 

"I'd  like  to.  I  won't  bother  with  baggage  —  some  shirts  and 
underclothes  in  my  suitcase.  If  the  Government  wants  me,  it 
will  clothe  me." 

Mr.  Wheeler  pushed  back  his  plate.  "Well,  now  I  guess 
you'd  better  come  out  with  me  and  look  at  the  wheat.  I  don't 
know  but  I'd  best  plough  up  that  south  quarter  and  put  it  in 
corn.  I  don't  believe  it  will  make  anything  much." 

When  Claude  and  his  father  went  out  of  the  door,  Dan 
sprang  up  with  more  alacrity  than  usual  and  plunged  after 
them.  He  did  not  want  to  be  left  alone  with  Mrs.  Wheeler. 
She  remained  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  deserted  breakfast 
table.  She  was  not  crying.  Her  eyes  were  utterly  sightless. 
Her  back  was  so  stooped  that  she  seemed  to  be  bending  under 
a  burden.  Mahailey  cleared  the  dishes  away  quietly. 

Out  in  the  muddy  fields  Claude  finished  his  talk  with  his 
father.  He  explained  that  he  wanted  to  slip  away  without 
saying  good-bye  to  any  one.  "I  have  a  way,  you  know,"  he 
said,  flushing,  "of  beginning  things  and  not  getting  very  far 
\vith  them.  I  don't  want  anything  said  about  this  until  I'm 
sure.  I  may  be  rejected  for  one  reason  or  another." 

Mr.  Wheeler  smiled.  "I  guess  not.  However,  I'll  tell  Dan 
to  keep  his  mouth  shut.  Will  you  just  go  over  to  Leonard 
Dawson's  and  get  that  wrench  he  borrowed  ?  It's  about  noon, 
and  he'll  likely  be  at  home." 


236  One  of  Ours 


Claude  found  big  Leonard  watering  his  team  at  the  windmill. 
When  Leonard  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the  President's 
message,  he  blurted  out  at  once  that  he  was  going  to  Omaha  to 
enlist.  Leonard  reached  up  and  pulled  the  lever  that  controlled 
the  almost  motionless  wheel. 

"Better  wait  a  few  weeks  and  I'll  go  with  you.  I'm  going 
to  try  for  the  Marines.  They  take  my  eye." 

Claude,  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  tank,  almost  fell  back- 
ward. "Why,  what  —  what  for?" 

Leonard  looked  him  over.  "Good  Lord,  Claude,  you  ain't 
the  only  fellow  around  here  that  wears  pants!  What  for? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  for,"  he  held  up  three  large  red  ringers 
threateningly;  "Belgium,  the  Lusitania,  Edith  Cavell.  That 
dirt's  got  under  my  skin.  I'll  get  my  corn  planted,  and  then 
Father'll  look  after  Susie  till  I  come  back." 

Claude  took  a  long  breath.  "Well,  Leonard,  you  fooled  me. 
I  believed  all  this  chaff  you've  been  giving  me  about  not  caring 
who  chewed  up  who." 

"And  no  more  do  I  care,"  Leonard  protested,  "not  a  damn! 
But  there's  a  limit.  I've  been  ready  to  go  since  the  Lusitania. 
I  don't  get  any  satisfaction  out  of  my  place  any  more.  Susie 
feels  the  same  way." 

Claude  looked  at  his  big  neighbour.  "Well,  I'm  off  to- 
morrow, Leonard.  Don't  mention  it  to  my  folks,  but  if  I 
can't  get  into  the  army,  I'm  going  to  enlist  in  the  navy.  They'll 
always  take  an  able-bodied  man.  I'm  not  coming  back  here." 
He  held  out  his  hand  and  Leonard  took  it  with  a  smack. 

"Good  luck,  Claude.  Maybe  we'll  meet  in  foreign  parts. 
Wouldn't  that  be  a  joke!  Give  my  love  to  Enid  when  you 
write.  I  always  did  think  she  was  a  fine  girl,  though  I  dis- 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  237 

agreed  with  her  on  Prohibition."  Claude  crossed  the  fields 
mechanically,  without  looking  where  he  went.  His  power  of 
vision  was  turned  inward  upon  scenes  and  events  wholly  imag- 
inary as  yet. 


IX 


ONE  bright  June  day  Mr.  Wheeler  parked  his  car  in  a 
line  of  motors  before  the  new  pressed-brick  Court 
house  in  Frankfort.  The  Court  house  stood  in  an 
open  square,  surrounded  by  a  grove  of  cotton-woods.  The 
lawn  was  freshly  cut,  and  the  flower  beds  were  blooming. 
When  Mr.  Wheeler  entered  the  courtroom  upstairs,  it  was 
already  half -full  of  farmers  and  townspeople,  talking  in  low 
tones  while  the  summer  flies  buzzed  in  and  out  of  the  open 
windows.  The  Judge,  a  one-armed  man,  with  white  hair  and 
side- whiskers,  sat  at  his  desk,  writing  with  his  left  hand.  He 
was  an  old  settler  in  Frankfort  county,  but  from  his  frock- 
coat  and  courtly  manners  you  might  have  thought  he  had  come 
from  Kentucky  yesterday  instead  of  thirty  years  ago.  He 
was  to  hear  this  morning  a  charge  of  disloyalty  brought  against 
two  German  farmers.  One  of  the  accused  was  August  Yoe- 
der,  the  Wheelers'  nearest  neighbour,  and  the  other  was 
Troilus  Oberlies,  a  rich  German  from  the  northern  part  of 
the  county. 

Oberlies  owned  a  beautiful  farm  and  lived  in  a  big  white 
house  set  on  a  hill,  with  a  fine  orchard,  rows  of  beehives,  barns, 
granaries,  and  poultry  yards.  He  raised  turkeys  and  tumbler- 
pigeons,  and  many  geese  and  ducks  swam  about  on  his  cattle- 
ponds.  He  used  to  boast  that  he  had  six  sons,  "like  our  Ger- 
man Emperor."  His  neighbours  were  proud  of  his  place,  and 
pointed  it  out  to  strangers.  They  told  how  Oberlies  had  come 
to  Frankfort  county  a  poor  man,  and  had  made  his  fortune 

238 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  239 

by  his  industry  and  intelligence.  He  had  twice  crossed  the 
ocean  to  re-visit  his  fatherland,  and  when  he  returned  to  his 
home  on  the  prairies  he  brought  presents  for  every  one;  his 
lawyer,  his  banker,  and  the  merchants  with  whom  he  dealt  in 
Frankfort  and  Vicount.  Each  of  his  neighbours  had  in  his 
parlour  some  piece  of  woodcarving  or  weaving,  or  some  ingen- 
ious mechanical  toy  that  Oberlies  had  picked  up  in  Germany. 
He  was  an  older  man  than  Yoeder,  wore  a  short  beard  that 
was  white  and  curly,  like  his  hair,  and  though  he  was  low  in 
stature,  his  puffy  red  face  and  full  blue  eyes,  and  a  certain 
swagger  about  his  carriage,  gave  him  a  look  of  importance. 
He  was  boastful  and  quick-tempered,  but  until  the  war  broke 
out  in  Europe  nobody  had  ever  had  any  trouble  with  him. 
Since  then  he  had  constantly  found  fault  and  complained, — 
everything  was  better  in  the  Old  Country. 

Mr.  Wheeler  had  come  to  town  prepared  to  lend  Yoeder  a 
hand  if  he  needed  one.  They  had  worked  adjoining  fields 
for  thirty  years  now.  He  was  surprised  that  his  neighbour 
had  got  into  trouble.  He  was  not  a  blusterer,  like  Oberlies, 
but  a  big,  quiet  man,  with  a  serious,  large- featured  face,  and  a 
stern  mouth  that  seldom  opened.  His  countenance  might  have 
been  cut  out  of  red  sandstone,  it  was  so  heavy  and  fixed.  He 
and  Oberlies  sat  on  two  wooden  chairs  outside  the  railing  of 
the  Judge's  desk. 

Presently  the  Judge  stopped  writing  and  said  he  would  hear 
the  charges  against  Troilus  Oberlies.  Several  neighbours  took 
the  stand  in  succession;  their  complaints  were  confused  and 
almost  humorous.  Oberlies  had  said  the  United  States  would 
be  licked,  and  that  would  be  a  good  thing;  America  was  a 
great  country,  but  it  was  run  by  fools,  and  to  be  governed  by 
Germany  was  the  best  thing  that  could  happen  to  it.  The 


240  One  of  Ours 


witness  went  on  to  say  that  since  Oberlies  had  made  his  money 
in  this  country  — 

Here  the  Judge  interrupted  him.  "Please  confine  yourself 
to  statements  which  you  consider  disloyal,  made  in  your  pres- 
ence by  the  defendant."  While  the  witness  proceeded,  the 
Judge  took  off  his  glasses  and  laid  them  on  the  desk  and  began 
to  polish  the  lenses  with  a  silk  handkerchief,  trying  them,  and 
rubbing  them  again,  as  if  he  desired  to  see  clearly. 

A  second  witness  had  heard  Oberlies  say  he  hoped  the  Ger- 
man submarines  would  sink  a  few  troopships;  that  would 
frighten  the  Americans  and  teach  them  to  stay  at  home  and 
mind  their  own  business.  A  third  complained  that  on  Sunday 
afternoons  the  old  man  sat  on  his  front  porch  and  played 
Die  Wacht  am  Rhein  on  a  slide-trombone,  to  the  great  annoy- 
ance of  his  neighbours.  Here  Nat  Wheeler  slapped  his  knee 
with  a  loud  guffaw,  and  a  titter  ran  through  the  courtroom. 
The  defendant's  puffy  red  cheeks  seemed  fashioned  by  his 
Maker  to  give  voice  to  that  piercing  instrument. 

When  asked  if  he  had  anything  to  say  to  these  charges,  the 
old  man  rose,  threw  back  his  shoulders,  and  cast  a  defiant 
glance  at  the  courtroom.  "You  may  take  my  property  and 
imprison  me,  but  I  explain  nothing,  and  I  take  back  nothing," 
he  declared  in  a  loud  voice. 

The  Judge  regarded  his  inkwell  with  a  smile.  "You  mistake 
the  nature  of  this  occasion,  Mr.  Oberlies.  You  are  not  asked 
to  recant.  You  are  merely  asked  to  desist  from  further  dis- 
loyal utterances,  as  much  for  your  own  protection  and  comfort 
as  from  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  your  neighbours.  I 
will  now  hear  the  charges  against  Mr.  Yoeder." 

Mr.  Yoeder,  a  witness  declared,  had  said  he  hoped  the 
United  States  would  go  to  Hell,  now  that  it  had  been  bought 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  241 

over  by  England.  When  the  witness  had  remarked  to  him  that 
if  the  Kaiser  were  shot  it  would  end  the  war,  Yoeder  replied 
that  charity  begins  at  home,  and  he  wished  somebody  would 
put  a  bullet  in  the  President. 

When  he  was  called  upon,  Yoeder  rose  and  stood  like  a  rock 
before  the  Judge.  "I  have  nothing  to  say.  The  charges  are 
true.  I  thought  this  was  a  country  where  a  man  could  speak 
his  mind." 

"Yes,  a  man  can  speak  his  mind,  but  even  here  he  must  take 
the  consequences.  Sit  down,  please."  The  Judge  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  and  looking  at  the  two  men  in  front  of  him,  began 
with  deliberation:  "Mr.  Oberlies,  and  Mr.  Yoeder,  you  both 
know,  and  your  friends  and  neighbours  know,  why  you  are 
here.  You  have  not  recognized  the  element  of  appropriateness, 
which  must  be  regarded  in  nearly  all  the  transactions  of  life; 
many  of  our  civil  laws  are  founded  upon  it.  You  have  allowed 
a  sentiment,  noble  in  itself,  to  carry  you  away  and  lead  you  to 
make  extravagant  statements  which  I  am  confident  neither  of 
you  mean.  No  man  can  demand  that  you  cease  from  loving 
the  country  of  your  birth;  but  while  you  enjoy  the  benefits  of 
this  country,  you  should  not  defame  its  government  to  extol 
another.  You  both  admit  to  utterances  which  I  can  only  ad- 
judge disloyal.  I  shall  fine  you  each  three  hundred  dollars ;  a 
very  light  fine  under  the  circumstances.  If  I  should  have 
occasion  to  fix  a  penalty  a  second  time,  it  will  be  much  more 
severe." 

After  the  case  was  concluded,  Mr.  Wheeler  joined  his  neigh- 
bour at  the  door  and  they  went  downstairs  together. 

"Well,  what  do  you  hear  from  Claude?"  Mr.  Yoeder  asked. 

"He's  still  at  Fort  R .  He  expects  to  get  home  on  leave 

before  he  sails.  Gus,  you'll  have  to  lend  me  one  of  your  boys 


242  One  of  Ours 


to  cultivate  my  corn.     The  weeds  are  getting  away  from  me." 
"Yes,  you  can  have  any  of  my  boys, —  till  the  draft  gets  'em," 
said  Yoeder  sourly. 

"I  wouldn't  worry  about  it.  A  little  military  training  is 
good  for  a  boy.  You  fellows  know  that."  Mr.  Wheeler 
winked,  and  Yoeder's  grim  mouth  twitched  at  one  corner. 

That  evening  at  supper  Mr.  Wheeler  gave  his  wife  a  full 
account  of  the  court  hearing,  so  that  she  could  write  it  to 
Claude.  Mrs.  Wheeler,  always  more  a  school-teacher  than  a 
housekeeper,  wrote  a  rapid,  easy  hand,  and  her  long  letters  to 
Claude  reported  all  the  neighbourhood  doings.  Mr.  Wheeler 
furnished  much  of  the  material  for  them.  Like  many  long- 
married  men  he  had  fallen  into  the  way  of  withholding  neigh- 
bourhood news  from  his  wife.  But  since  Claude  went  away  he 
reported  to  her  everything  in  which  he  thought  the  boy  would 
be  interested.  As  she  laconically  said  in  one  of  her  letters: 
"Your  father  talks  a  great  deal  more  at  home  than  formerly, 
and  sometimes  I  think  he  is  trying  to  take  your  place." 


X 

ON  the  first  day  of  July  Claude  Wheeler  found  himself 
in  the  fast  train  from  Omaha,  going  home  for  a 
week's  leave.  The  uniform  was  still  an  unfamiliar 
sight  in  July,  1917.  The  first  draft  was  not  yet  called,  and  the 
boys  who  had  rushed  off  and  enlisted  were  in  training  camps 
far  away.  Therefore  a  red-headed  young  man  with  long 
straight  legs  in  puttees,  and  broad,  energetic,  responsible-look- 
ing shoulders  in  close-fitting  khaki,  made  a  conspicuous  figure 
among  the  passengers.  Little  boys  and  young  girls  peered  at 
him  over  the  tops  of  seats,  men  stopped  in  the  aisle  to  talk  to 
him,  old  ladies  put  on  their  glasses  and  studied  his  clothes,  his 
bulky  canvas  hold-all,  and  even  the  book  he  kept  opening  and 
forgetting  to  read. 

The  country  that  rushed  by  him  on  each  side  of  the  track 
was  more  interesting  to  his  trained  eye  than  the  pages  of  any 
book.  He  was  glad  to  be  going  through  it  at  harvest, —  the 
season  when  it  is  most  itself.  He  noted  that  there  was  more 
corn  than  usual, —  much  of  the  winter  wheat  had  been  weather- 
killed,  and  the  fields  were  ploughed  up  in  the  spring  and  re- 
planted in  maize.  The  pastures  were  already  burned  brown, 
the  alfalfa  was  coming  green  again  after  its  first  cutting. 
Binders  and  harvesters  were  abroad  in  the  wheat  and  oats, 
gathering  the  soft-breathing  billows  of  grain  into  wide,  subdu- 
ing arms.  When  the  train  slowed  down  for  a  trestle  in  a 
wheat  field,  harvesters  in  blue  shirts  and  overalls  and  wide 
straw  hats  stopped  working  to  wave  at  the  passengers. 

243 


244  One  of  Ours 


Claude  turned  to  the  old  man  in  the  opposite  seat.  "When 
I  see  those  fellows,  I  feel  as  if  I'd  wakened  up  in  the  wrong 
clothes." 

His  neighbour  looked  pleased  and  smiled.  "That  the  kind  of 
uniform  you're  accustomed  to?" 

"I  surely  never  wore  anything  else  in  the  month  of  July," 
Claude  admitted.  "When  I  find  myself  riding  along  in  a  train, 
in  the  middle  of  harvest,  trying  to  learn  French  verbs,  then  I 
know  the  world  is  turned  upside  down,  for  a  fact !" 

The  old  man  pressed  a  cigar  upon  him  and  began  to  question 
him.  Like  the  hero  of  the  Odyssey  upon  his  homeward  jour- 
ney, Claude  had  often  to  tell  what  his  country  was,  and  who 
were  the  parents  that  begot  him.  He  was  constantly  inter- 
rupted in  his  perusal  of  a  French  phrase-book  (made  up  of 
sentences  chosen  for  their  usefulness  to  soldiers, —  such  as; 
"Non,  jamais  je  ne  regarde  les  femmes")  by  the  questions  of 
curious  strangers.  Presently  he  gathered  up  his  luggage,  shook 
hands  with  his  neighbour,  and  put  on  his  hat  —  the  same  old 
Stetson,  with  a  gold  cord  and  two  hard  tassels  added  to  its 
conical  severity.  "I  get  off  at  this  station  and  wait  for  the 
freight  that  goes  down  to  Frankfort ;  the  cotton-tail,  we  call  it." 

The  old  man  wished  him  a  pleasant  visit  home,  and  the  best 
of  luck  in  days  to  come.  Every  one  in  the  car  smiled  at  him 
as  he  stepped  down  to  the  platform  with  his  suitcase  in  one 
hand  and  his  canvas  bag  in  the  other.  His  old  friend,  Mrs. 
Voigt,  the  German  woman,  stood  out  in  front  of  her  restaur- 
ant, ringing  her  bell  to  announce  that  dinner  was  ready  for 
travellers.  A  crowd  of  young  boys  stood  about  her  on  the 
sidewalk,  laughing  and  shouting  in  disagreeable,  jeering  tones. 
As  Claude  approached,  one  of  them  snatched  the  bell  from  her 
hand,  ran  off  across  the  tracks  with  it,  and  plunged  into  a 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  245 

cornfield.  The  other  boys  followed,  and  one  of  them  shouted, 
"Don't  go  in  there  to  eat,  soldier.  She's  a  German  spy,  and 
she'll  put  ground  glass  in  your  dinner!" 

Claude  went  into  the  lunch  room  and  threw  his  bags  on  the 
floor.  "What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Voigt?  Can  I  do  anything 
for  you  ?" 

She  was  sitting  on  one  of  her  own  stools,  crying  piteously, 
her  false  frizzes  awry.  Looking  up,  she  gave  a  little  screech  of 
recognition.  "Oh,  I  tank  Gott  it  was  you,  and  no  more  trouble 
coming !  You  know  I  ain't  no  spy  nor  nodding,  like  what  dem 
boys  say.  Dem  young  fellers  is  dreadful  rough  mit  me.  I  sell 
dem  candy  since  dey  was  babies,  an'  now  dey  turn  on  me  like 
dis.  Hindenburg,  dey  calls  me,  und  Kaiser  Bill !"  She  began 
to  cry  again,  twisting  her  stumpy  little  fingers  as  if  she  would 
tear  them  off. 

"Give  me  some  dinner,  ma'am,  and  then  I'll  go  and  settle  with 
that  gang.  I've  been  away  for  a  long  time,  and  it  seemed  like 
getting  home  when  I  got  off  the  train  and  saw  your  squash 
vines  running  over  the  porch  like  they  used  to." 

"Ya?  You  remember  dat?"  she  wiped  her  eyes.  "I  got  a 
pot-pie  today,  und  green  peas,  chust  a  few,  out  of  my  own 
garden." 

"Bring  them  along,  please.  We  don't  get  anything  but 
canned  stuff  in  camp." 

Some  railroad  men  came  in  for  lunch.  Mrs.  Voigt  beckoned 
Claude  off  to  the  end  of  the  counter,  where,  after  she  had 
served  her  customers,  she  sat  down  and  talked  to  him,  in 
whispers. 

"My,  you  look  good  in  dem  clothes,"  she  said  patting  his 
sleeve.  "I  can  remember  some  wars,  too;  when  we  got  back 
dem  provinces  what  Napoleon  took  away  from  us,  Alsace  und 


246  One  of  Ours 


Lorraine.  Dem  boys  is  passed  de  word  to  come  und  put  tar 
on  me  some  night,  und  I  am  skeered  to  go  in  my  bet.  I  chust 
wrap  in  a  quilt  und  sit  in  my  old  chair." 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  them.  You  don't  have  trouble 
with  the  business  people  here,  do  you  ?" 

"No-o,  not  troubles,  exactly."  She  hesitated,  then  leaned 
impulsively  across  the  counter  and  spoke  in  his  ear.  "But  it 
ain't  all  so  bad  in  de  Old  Country  like  what  dey  say.  De  poor 
people  ain't  slaves,  und  dey  ain't  ground  down  like  what  dey 
say  here.  Always  de  forester  let  de  poor  folks  come  into  de 
wood  und  carry  off  de  limbs  dat  fall,  und  de  dead  trees.  Und 
if  de  rich  farmer  have  maybe  a  liddle  more  manure  dan  he 
need,  he  let  de  poor  man  come  und  take  some  for  his  land. 
De  poor  folks  don't  git  such  wages  like  here,  but  dey  lives 
chust  as  comfortable.  Und  dem  wooden  shoes,  what  dey 
makes  such  fun  of,  is  cleaner  dan  what  leather  is,  to  go  round 
in  de  mud  und  manure.  Dey  don't  git  so  wet  und  dey  don't 
stink  so." 

Claude  could  see  that  her  heart  was  bursting  with  homesick- 
ness, full  of  tender  memories  of  the  far-away  time  and  land 
of  her  youth.  She  had  never  talked  to  him  of  these  things 
before,  but  now  she  poured  out  a  flood  of  confidences  about  the 
big  dairy  farm  on  which  she  had  worked  as  a  girl;  how  she 
took  care  of  nine  cows,  and  how  the  cows,  though  small,  were 
very  strong, —  drew  a  plough  all  day  and  yet  gave  as  much  milk 
at  night  as  if  they  had  been  browsing  in  a  pasture !  The  coun- 
try people  never  had  to  spend  money  for  doctors,  but  cured 
all  diseases  with  roots  and  herbs,  and  when  the  old  folks 
had  the  rheumatism  they  took  "one  of  dem  liddle  jenny-pigs" 
to  bed  with  them,  and  the  guinea-pig  drew  out  all  the  pain. 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  247 

Claude  would  have  liked  to  listen  longer,  but  he  wanted  to 
find  the  old  woman's  tormentors  before  his  train  came  in. 
Leaving  his  bags  with  her,  he  crossed  the  railroad  tracks, 
guided  by  an  occasional  teasing  tinkle  of  the  bell  in  the  corn- 
field. Presently  he  came  upon  the  gang,  a  dozen  or  more,  lying 
in  a  shallow  draw  that  ran  from  the  edge  of  the  field  out  into 
an  open  pasture.  He  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  bank  and  looked 
down  at  them,  while  he  slowly  cut  off  the  end  of  a  cigar  and 
lit  it.  The  boys  grinned  at  him,  trying  to  appear  indifferent 
and  at  ease. 

"Looking  for  any  one,  soldier  ?"  asked  the  one  with  the  bell. 

"Yes,  I  am.  I'm  looking  for  that  bell.  You'll  have  to 
take  it  back  where  it  belongs.  You  every  one  of  you  know 
there's  no  harm  in  that  old  woman." 

"She's  a  German,  and  we're  fighting  the  Germans,  ain't  we?" 

"I  don't  think  you'll  ever  fight  any.  You'd  last  about  ten 
minutes  in  the  American  army.  You're  not  our  kind.  There's 
only  one  army  in  the  world  that  wants  men  who'll  bully  old 
women.  You  might  get  a  job  with  them." 

The  boys  giggled.  Claude  beckoned  impatiently.  "Come 
along  with  that  bell,  kid." 

The  boy  rose  slowly  and  climbed  the  bank  out  of  the  gully. 
As  they  tramped  back  through  the  cornfield,  Claude  turned 
to  him  abruptly.  "See  here,  aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that !"  the  boy  replied  airily,  toss- 
ing the  bell  up  like  a  ball  and  catching  it. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be.  I  didn't  expect  to  see  anything  of 
this  kind  until  I  got  to  the  front.  I'll  be  back  here  in  a  week, 
and  I'll  make  it  hot  for  anybody  that's  been  bothering  her." 
Claude's  train  was  pulling  in,  and  he  ran  for  his  baggage. 


248  One  of  Ours 


Once  seated  in  the  "cotton-tail,"  he  began  going  down  into 
his  own  country,  where  he  knew  every  farm  he  passed,- — knew 
the  land  even  when  he  did  not  know  the  owner,  what  sort  of 
crops  it  yielded,  and  about  how  much  it  was  worth.  He  did 
not  recognize  these  farms  with  the  pleasure  he  had  anticipated, 
because  he  was  so  angry  about  the  indignities  Mrs.  Voigt  had 
suffered.  He  was  still  burning  with  the  first  ardour  of  the 
enlisted  man.  He  believed  that  he  was  going  abroad  with  an 
expeditionary  force  that  would  make  war  without  rage,  with 
uncompromising  generosity  and  chivalry. 

Most  of  his  friends  at  camp  shared  his  Quixotic  ideas. 
They  had  come  together  from  farms  and  shops  and  mills  and 
mines,  boys  from  college  and  boys  from  tough  joints  in  big 
cities;  sheepherders,  street  car  drivers,  plumbers'  assistants, 
billiard  markers.  Claude  had  seen  hundreds  of  them  when 
they  first  came  in;  "show  men"  in  cheap,  loud  sport  suits, 
ranch  boys  in  knitted  waistcoats,  machinists  with  the  grease 
still  on  their  fingers,  farm-hands  like  Dan,  in  their  one  Sunday 
coat.  Some  of  them  carried  paper  suitcases  tied  up  with  rope, 
some  brought  all  they  had  in  a  blue  handkerchief.  But  they 
all  came  to  give  and  not  to  ask,  and  what  they  offered  was 
just  themselves;  their  big  red  hands,  their  strong  backs,  the 
steady,  honest,  modest  look  in  their  eyes.  Sometimes,  when 
he  had  helped  the  medical  examiner,  Claude  had  noticed  the 
anxious  expression  in  the  faces  of  the  long  lines  of  waiting 
men.  They  seemed  to  say,  "If  I'm  good  enough,  take  me. 
I'll  stay  by."  He  found  them  like  that  to  work  with ;  service- 
able, good-natured,  and  eager  to  learn.  If  they  talked  about 
the  war,  or  the  enemy  they  were  getting  ready  to  fight,  it  was 
usually  in  a  facetious  tone ;  they  were  going  to  "can  the  Kaiser," 
or  to  make  the  Crown  Prince  work  for  a  living.  Claude 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  249 

loved  the  men  he  trained  with, —  wouldn't  choose  to  live  in  any 
better  company. 

The  freight  train  swung  into  the  river  valley  that  meant 
home, —  the  place  the  mind  always  came  back  to,  after  its 
farthest  quest.  Rapidly  the  farms  passed;  the  haystacks,  the 
cornfields,  the  familiar  red  barns  —  then  the  long  coal  sheds  and 
the  water  tank,  and  the  train  stopped. 

On  the  platform  he  saw  Ralph  and  Mr.  Royce,  waiting  to 
welcome  him.  Over  there,  in  the  automobile,  were  his  father 
and  mother,  Mr.  Wheeler  in  the  driver's  seat.  A  line  of 
motors  stood  along  the  siding.  He  was  the  first  soldier  who 
had  come  home,  and  some  of  the  townspeople  had  driven  down 
to  see  him  arrive  in  his  uniform.  From  one  car  Susie  Dawson 
waved  to  him,  and  from  another  Gladys  Farmer.  While  he 
stopped  and  spoke  to  them,  Ralph  took  his  bags. 

"Come  along,  boys,"  Mr.  Wheeler  called,  tooting  his  horn, 
and  he  hurried  the  soldier  away,  leaving  only  a  cloud  of  dust 
behind. 

Mr.  Royce  went  over  to  old  man  Dawson's  car  and  said 
rather  childishly,  "It  can't  be  that  Claude's  grown  taller?  I 
suppose  it's  the  way  they  learn  to  carry  themselves.  He  always 
was  a  manly  looking  boy." 

"I  expect  his  mother's  a  proud  woman,"  said  Susie,  very 
much  excited.  "It's  too  bad  Enid  can't  be  here  to  see  him. 
She  would  never  have  gone  away  if  she'd  known  all  that  was 
to  happen." 

Susie  did  not  mean  this  as  a  thrust,  but  it  took  effect.  Mr. 
Royce  turned  away  and  lit  a  cigar  with  some  difficulty.  His 
hands  had  grown  very  unsteady  this  last  year,  though  he 
insisted  that  his  general  health  was  as  good  as  ever.  As  he 
grew  older,  he  was  more  depressed  by  the  conviction  that  his 


250  One  of  Ours 


women-folk  had  added  little  to  the  warmth  and  comfort  of 
the  world.  Women  ought  to  do  that,  whatever  else  they  did. 
He  felt  apologetic  toward  the  Wheelers  and  toward  his  old 
friends.  It  seemed  as  if  his  daughters  had  no  heart. 


XI 

CAMP  habits  persisted.  On  his  first  morning  at  home 
Claude  came  downstairs  before  even  Mahailey  was 
stirring,  and  went  out  to  have  a  look  at  the  stock. 
The  red  sun  came  up  just  as  he  was  going  down  the  hill 
toward  the  cattle  corral,  and  he  had  the  pleasant  feeling 
of  being  at  home,  on  his  father's  land.  Why  was  it  so 
gratifying  to  be  able  to  say  "our  hill,"  and  "our  creek  down 
yonder"  ?  to  feel  the  crunch  of  this  particular  dried  mud  under 
his  boots? 

When  he  went  into  the  barn  to  see  the  horses,  the  first 
creatures  to  meet  his  eye  were  the  two  big  mules  that  had  run 
away  with  him,  standing  in  the  stalls  next  the  door.  It  flashed 
upon  Claude  that  these  muscular  quadrupeds  were  the  actual 
authors  of  his  fate.  If  they  had  not  bolted  with  him  and 
thrown  him  into  the  wire  fence  that  morning,  Enid  would  not 
have  felt  sorry  for  him  and  come  to  see  him  every  day,  and  his 
life  might  have  turned  out  differently.  Perhaps  if  older  people 
were  a  little  more  honest,  and  a  boy  were  not  taught  to 
idealize  in  women  the  very  qualities  which  can  make  him 
utterly  unhappy —  But  there,  he  had  got  away  from  those 
regrets.  But  wasn't  it  just  like  him  to  be  dragged  into  mat- 
rimony by  a  pair  of  mules ! 

He  laughed  as  he  looked  at  them.  "You  old  devils,  you're 
strong  enough  to  play  such  tricks  on  green  fellows  for  years 
to  come.  You're  chock  full  of  meanness !" 

One  of  the  animals  wagged  an  ear  and  cleared  his  throat 

251 


252  One  of  Ours 


threateningly.  Mules  are  capable  of  strong  affections,  but 
they  hate  snobs, ,  are  the  enemies  of  caste,  and  this  pair  had 
always  seemed  to  detect  in  Claude  what  his  father  used  to  call 
his  "false  pride."  When  he  was  a  young  lad  they  had  been 
a  source  of  humiliation  to  him,  braying  and  balking  in  public 
places,  trying  to  show  off  at  the  lumber  yard  or  in  front  of 
the  postoffice. 

At  the  end  manger  Claude  found  old  Molly,  the  grey  mare 
with  the  stiff  leg,  who  had  grown  a  second  hoof  on  her  off 
forefoot,  an  achievement  not  many  horses  could  boast  of.  He 
was  sure  she  recognized  him;  she  nosed  his  hand  and  arm 
and  turned  back  her  upper  lip,  showing  her  worn,  yellow 
teeth. 

"Mustn't  do  that,  Molly,"  he  said  as  he  stroked  her.  "A 
dog  can  laugh,  but  it  makes  a  horse  look  foolish.  Seems  to 
me  Dan  might  curry  you  about  once  a  week !"  He  took  a 
comb  from  its  niche  behind  a  joist  and  gave  her  old  coat  a 
rubbing.  Her  white  hair  was  flecked  all  over  with  little  rust- 
coloured  dashes,  like  India  ink  put  on  with  a  fine  brush,  and 
her  mane  and  tail  had  turned  a  greenish  yellow.  She  must 
be  eighteen  years  old,  Claude  reckoned,  as  he  polished  off  her 
round,  heavy  haunches.  He  and  Ralph  used  to  ride  her  over 
to  the  Yoeders'  when  they  were  barefoot  youngsters,  guiding 
her  with  a  rope  halter,  and  kicking  at  the  leggy  colt  that  was 
always  running  alongside. 

When  he  entered  the  kitchen  and  asked  Mahailey  for  warm 
water  to  wash  his  hands,  she  sniffed  him  disapprovingly. 

"Why,  Mr.  Claude,  you've  been  curryin'  that  old  mare,  and 
you've  got  white  hairs  all  over  your  soldier-clothes.  You're 
jist  covered !" 

If  his  uniform  stirred  feeling  in  people  of  sober  judgment, 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  253 

over  Mahailey  it  cast  a  spell.  She  was  so  dazzled  by  it  that 
all  the  time  Claude  was  at  home  she  never  once  managed  to 
examine  it  in  detail.  Before  she  got  past  his  puttees,  her 
powers  of  observation  were  befogged  by  excitement,  and  her 
wits  began  to  jump  about  like  monkeys  in  a  cage.  She  had 
expected  his  uniform  to  be  blue,  like  those  she  remembered, 
and  when  he  walked  into  the  kitchen  last  night  she  scarcely 
knew  what  to  make  of  him.  After  Mrs.  Wheeler  explained 
to  her  that  American  soldiers  didn't  wear  blue  now,  Mahailey 
repeated  to  herself  that  these  brown  clothes  didn't  show  the 
dust,  and  that  Claude  would  never  look  like  the  bedraggled 
men  who  used  to  stop  to  drink  at  her  mother's  spring. 

"Them  leather  leggins  is  to  keep  the  briars  from  scratchin' 
you,  ain't  they?  I  'spect  there's  an  awful  lot  of  briars  over 
there,  like  them  long  blackberry  vines  in  the  fields  in  Virginia. 
Your  mudder  says  the  soldiers  git  lice  now,  like  they  done  in 
our  war.  You  jist  carry  a  little  bottle  of  coal-oil  in  your 
pocket  an'  rub  it  on  your  head  at  night.  It  keeps  the  nits 
from  hatchinV 

Over  the  flour  barrel  in  the  corner  Mahailey  had  tacked  a 
Red  Cross  poster ;  a  charcoal  drawing  of  an  old  woman  poking 
with  a  stick  in  a  pile  of  plaster  and  twisted  timbers  that  had 
once  been  her  home.  Claude  went  over  to  look  at  it  while 
he  dried  his  hands. 

"Where  did  you  get  your  picture?" 

"She's  over  there  where  you're  goin',  Mr.  Claude.  There 
she  is,  huntin'  for  somethin'  to  cook  with ;  no  stove  nor  no 
dishes  nor  nothin' — everything  all  broke  up.  I  reckon  she'll 
be  mighty  glad  to  see  you  comin'." 

Heavy  footsteps  sounded  on  the  stairs,  and  Mahailey  whis- 
pered hastily,  "Don't  forgit  about  the  coal-oil,  and  don't  you 


254  One  °f  Ours 


be  lousy  if  you  can  help  it,  honey."  She  considered  lice  in  the 
same  class  with  smutty  jokes, —  things  to  be  whispered  about. 

After  breakfast  Mr.  Wheeler  took  Claude  out  to  the  fields, 
where  Ralph  was  directing  the  harvesters.  They  watched  the 
binder  for  a  while,  then  went  over  to  look  at  the  haystacks 
and  alfalfa,  and  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  cornfield,  where 
they  examined  the  young  ears.  Mr.  Wheeler  explained  and 
exhibited  the  farm  to  Claude  as  if  he  were  a  stranger;  the 
boy  had  a  curious  feeling  of  being  now  formally  introduced 
to  these  acres  on  which  he  had  worked  every  summer  since  he 
was  big  enough  to  carry  water  to  the  harvesters.  His  father 
told  him  how  much  land  they  owned,  and  how  much  it  was 
worth,  and  that  it  was  unencumbered  except  for  a  trifling 
mortgage  he  had  given  on  one  quarter  when  he  took  over  the 
Colorado  ranch. 

"When  you  come  back,"  he  said,  "you  and  Ralph  won't  have 
to  hunt  around  to  get  into  business.  You'll  both  be  well  fixed. 
Now  you'd  better  go  home  by  old  man  Dawson's  and  drop  in 
to  see  Susie.  Everybody  about  here  was  astonished  when 
Leonard  went."  He  walked  with  Claude  to  the  corner  where 
the  Dawson  land  met  his  own.  "By  the  way,"  he  said  as  he 
turned  back,  "don't  forget  to  go  in  to  see  the  Yoeders  some- 
time. Gus  is  pretty  sore  since  they  had  him  up  in  court.  Ask 
for  the  old  grandmother.  You  remember  she  never  learned 
any  English.  And  now  they've  told  her  it's  dangerous  to 
talk  German,  she  don't  talk  at  all  and  hides  away  from 
everybody.  If  I  go  by  early  in  the  morning,  when  she's  out 
weeding  the  garden,  she  runs  and  squats  down  in  the  goose- 
berry bushes  till  Fm  out  of  sight." 

Claude  decided  he  would  go  to  the  Yoeders'  today,  and  to 
the  Dawsons'  tomorrow.  He  didn't  like  to  think  there  might 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  255 

be  hard  feeling  toward  him  in  a  house  where  he  had  had  so 
many  good  times,  and  where  he  had  often  found  a  refuge  when 
things  were  dull  at  home.  The  Yoeder  boys  had  a  music-box 
long  before  the  days  of  Victrolas,  and  a  magic  lantern,  and  the 
old  grandmother  made  wonderful  shadow-pictures  on  a  sheet, 
and  told  stories  about  them.  She  used  to  turn  the  map  of 
Europe  upside  down  on  the  kitchen  table  and  showed  the 
children  how,  in  this  position,  it  looked  like  a  Jungfrau;  and 
recited  a  long  German  rhyme  which  told  how  Spain  was  the 
maiden's  head,  the  Pyrenees  her  lace  ruff,  Germany  her  heart 
and  bosom,  England  and  Italy  were  two  arms,  and  Russia, 
though  it  looked  so  big,  was  only  a  hoopskirt.  This  rhyme 
would  probably  be  condemned  as  dangerous  propaganda  now ! 

As  he  walked  on  alone,  Claude  was  thinking  how  this 
country  that  had  once  seemed  little  and  dull  to  him,  now 
seemed  large  and  rich  in  variety.  During  the  months  in  camp 
he  had  been  wholly  absorbed  in  new  work  and  new  friend- 
ships, and  now  his  own  neighbourhood  came  to  him  with  the 
freshness  of  things  that  have  been  forgotten  for  a  long  while, 
—  came  together  before  his  eyes  as  a  harmonious  whole.  He 
was  going  away,  and  he  would  carry  the  whole  countryside  in 
his  mind,  meaning  more  to  him  than  it  ever  had  before.  There 
was  Lovely  Creek,  gurgling  on  down  there,  where  he  and 
Ernest  used  to  sit  and  lament  that  the  book  of  History  was 
finished;  that  the  world  had  come  to  avaricious  old  age 
and  noble  enterprise  was  dead  for  ever.  But  he  was  going 
away.  .  .  . 

That  afternoon  Claude  spent  with  his  mother.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  had  him  to  herself.  Ralph  wanted  terribly 
to  stay  and  hear  his  brother  talk,  but  understanding  how  his 
mother  felt,  he  went  back  to  the  wheat  field.  There  was  no 


256  One  of  Ours 


detail  of  Claude's  life  in  camp  so  trivial  that  Mrs.  Wheeler 
did  not  want  to  hear  about  it.  She  asked  about  the  mess, 
the  cooks,  the  laundry,  as  well  as  about  his  own  duties.  She 
made  him  describe  the  bayonet  drill  and  explain  the  operation 
of  machine  guns  and  automatic  rifles. 

"I  hardly  see  how  we  can  bear  the  anxiety  when  our  trans- 
ports begin  to  sail/'  she  said  thoughtfully.  "If  they  can  once 
get  you  all  over  there,  I  am  not  afraid ;  I  believe  our  boys  are 
as  good  as  any  in  the  world.  But  with  submarines  reported 
off  our  own  coast,  I  wonder  how  the  Government  can  get  our 
men  across  safely.  The  thought  of  transports  going  down 
with  thousands  of  young  men  on  board  is  something  so 
terrible  —  "  she  put  her  hands  quickly  over  her  eyes. 

Claude,  sitting  opposite  his  mother,  wondered  what  it  was 
about  her  hands  that  made  them  so  different  from  any  others 
he  had  ever  seen.  He  had  always  known  they  were  different, 
but  now  he  must  look  closely  and  see  why.  They  were  slender, 
and  always  white,  even  when  the  nails  were  stained  at  pre- 
serving time.  Her  fingers  arched  back  at  the  joints,  as  if 
they  were  shrinking  from  contacts.  They  were  restless,  and 
when  she  talked  often  brushed  her  hair  or  her  dress  lightly. 
When  she  was  excited  she  sometimes  put  her  hand  to  her 
throat,  or  felt  about  the  neck  of  her  gown,  as  if  she  were 
searching  for  a  forgotten  brooch.  They  were  sensitive  hands, 
and  yet  they  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  sense,  to  be 
almost  like  the  groping  ringers  of  a  spirit. 

"How  do  you  boys  feel  about  it?" 

Claude  started.  "About  what,  Mother?  Oh,  the  trans- 
portation !  We  don't  worry  about  that.  It's  the  Govern- 
ment's job  to  get  us  across.  A  soldier  mustn't  worry  about 
anything  except  what  he's  directly  responsible  for.  If  the 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie 


Germans  should  sink  a  few  troop  ships,  it  would  be  unfor- 
tunate, certainly,  —  but  it  wouldn't  cut  any  figure  in  the  long 
run.  The  British  are  perfecting  an  enormous  dirigible,  built 
to  carry  passengers.  If  our  transports  are  sunk,  it  will  only 
mean  delay.  In  another  year  the  Yankees  will  be  flying 
over.  They  can't  stop  us." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  bent  forward.  "That  must  be  boys'  talk, 
Claude.  Surely  you  don't  believe  such  a  thing  could  be 
practicable  ?" 

"Absolutely.  The  British  are  depending  on  their  aircraft 
designers  to  do  just  that,  if  everything  else  fails.  Of  course, 
nobody  knows  yet  how  effective  the  submarines  will  be 
in  our  case." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  again  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand.  "When 
I  was  young,  back  in  Vermont,  I  used  to  wish  that  I  had 
lived  in  the  old  times  when  the  world  went  ahead  by  leaps  and 
bounds.  And  now,  I  feel  as  if  my  sight  couldn't  bear  the  glory 
that  beats  upon  it.  It  seems  as  if  we  would  have  to  be  born 
with  new  faculties,  to  comprehend  what  is  going  on  in  the  air 
and  under  the  sea." 


XII 

THE  afternoon  sun  was  pouring  in  at  the  back  win- 
dows of  Mrs.  Farmer's  long,  uneven  parlour,  mak- 
ing the  dusky  room  look  like  a  cavern  with  a  fire 
at  one  end  of  it.  The  furniture  was  all  in  its  cool,  figured 
summer  cretonnes.  The  glass  flower  vases  that  stood  about 
on  little  tables  caught  the  sunlight  and  twinkled  like  tiny 
lamps.  Claude  had  been  sitting  there  for  a  long  while,  and 
he  knew  he  ought  to  go.  Through  the  window  at  his  elbow 
he  could  see  rows  of  double  hollyhocks,  the  flat  leaves  of  the 
sprawling  catalpa,  and  the  spires  of  the  tangled  mint  bed,  all 
transparent  in  the  gold-powdered  light.  They  had  talked 
about  everything  but  the  thing  he  had  come  to  say.  As  he 
looked  out  into  the  garden  he  felt  that  he  would  never  get  it 
out.  There  was  something  in  the  way  the  mint  bed  burned 
and  floated  that  made  one  a  fatalist, —  afraid  to  meddle.  But 
after  he  was  far  away,  he  would  regret;  uncertainty  would 
tease  him  like  a  splinter  in  his  thumb. 

He  rose  suddenly  and  said  without  apology:  "Gladys,  I 
wish  I  could  feel  sure  you'd  never  marry  my  brother." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  sat  in  her  easy  chair,  looking  up  at 
him  with  a  strange  kind  of  calmness. 

"I  know  all  the  advantages,"  he  went  on  hastily,  ''but  they 
wouldn't  make  it  up  to  you.  That  sort  of  a  —  compromise 
would  make  you  awfully  unhappy.  I  know." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  marry  Bayliss,"  Gladys  spoke  in 
her  usual  low,  round  voice,  but  her  quick  breathing  showed  he 

258 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  259 

had  touched  something  that  hurt.  "I  suppose  I  have  used 
him.  It  gives  a  school-teacher  a  certain  prestige  if  people 
think  she  can  marry  the  rich  bachelor  of  the  town  when- 
ever she  wants  to.  But  I  am  afraid  I  won't  marry  him, — 
because  you  are  the  member  of  the  family  I  have  always  ad- 
mired." 

Claude  turned  away  to  the  window.  "A  fine  lot  I've  been 
to  admire,"  he  muttered. 

"Well,  it's  true,  anyway.  It  was  like  that  when  we  went 
to  High  School,  and  it's  kept  up.  Everything  you  do  always 
seems  exciting  to  me." 

Claude  felt  a  cold  perspiration  on  his  forehead.  He  wished 
now  that  he  had  never  come.  "But  that's  it,  Gladys.  What 
have  I  ever  done,  except  make  one  blunder  after  another?" 

She  came  over  to  the  window  and  stood  beside  him.  "I 
don't  know;  perhaps  it's  by  their  blunders  that  one  gets  to 
know  people, —  by  what  they  can't  do.  If  you'd  been  like  all 
the  rest,  you  could  have  got  on  in  their  way.  That  was  the 
one  thing  I  couldn't  have  stood." 

Claude  was  frowning  out  into  the  flaming  garden.  He 
had  not  heard  a  word  of  her  reply.  "Why  didn't  you  keep 
me  from  making  a  fool  of  myself?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  think  I  tried  —  once.  Anyhow,  it's  all  turning  out  better 
than  I  thought.  You  didn't  get  stuck  here.  You've  found 
your  place.  You're  sailing  away.  You've  just  begun." 

"And  what  about  you?" 

She  laughed  softly.     "Oh,  I  shall  teach  in  the  High  School !" 

Claude  took  her  hands  and  they  stood  looking  searchingly  at 
each  other  in  the  swimming  golden  light  that  made  every- 
thing transparent.  He  never  knew  exactly  how  he  found 
his  hat  and  made  his  way  out  of  the  house.  He  was  only  sure 


260  One  of  Ours 


that  Gladys  did  not  accompany  him  to  the  door.     He  glanced 
back  once,  and  saw  her  head  against  the  bright  window. 

She  stood  there,  exactly  where  he  left  her,  and  watched  the 
evening  come  on,  not  moving,  scarcely  breathing.  She  was 
thinking  how  often,  when  she  came  downstairs,  she  would  see 
him  standing  here  by  the  window,  or  moving  about  in  the 
dusky  room,  looking  at  last  as  he  ought  to  look, —  like  his  con- 
victions and  the  choice  he  had  made.  She  would  never  let  this 
house  be  sold  for  taxes  now.  She  would  save  her  salary  and 
pay  them  off.  She  could  never  like  any  other  room  so  well 
as  this.  It  had  always  been  a  refuge  from  Frankfort;  and 
now  there  would  be  this  vivid,  confident  figure,  an  image  as 
distinct  to  her  as  the  portrait  of  her  grandfather  upon  the 
wall. 


XIII 

SUNDAY  was  Claude's  last  day  at  home,  and  he  took 
a  long  walk  with  Ernest  and  Ralph.  Ernest  would 
have  preferred  to  lose  Ralph,  but  when  the  boy  was 
out  of  the  harvest  field  he  stuck  to  his  brother  like  a  burr. 
There  was  something  about  Claude's  new  clothes  and  new 
manner  that  fascinated  him,  and  he  went  through  one  of  those 
sudden  changes  of  feeling  that  often  occur  in  families.  Al- 
though they  had  been  better  friends  ever  since  Claude's 
wedding,  until  now  Ralph  had  always  felt  a  little  ashamed 
of  him.  Why,  he  used  to  ask  himself,  wouldn't  Claude 
"spruce  up  and  be  somebody?"  Now,  he  was  struck  by  the 
fact  that  he  was  somebody. 

On  Monday  morning  Mrs.  Wheeler  wakened  early,  with 
a  faintness  in  her  chest.  This  was  the  day  on  which  she  must 
acquit  herself  well.  Breakfast  would  be  Claude's  last  meal 
at  home.  At  eleven  o'clock  his  father  and  Ralph  would  take 
him  to  Frankfort  to  catch  the  train.  She  was  longer  than 
usual  in  dressing.  When  she  got  downstairs  Claude  and 
Mahailey  were  already  talking.  He  was  shaving  in  the  wash- 
room, and  Mahailey  stood  watching  him,  a  side  of  bacon  in 
her  hand. 

"You  tell  'em  over  there  I'm  awful  sorry  about  them  old 
women,  with  their  dishes  an'  their  stove  all  broke  up." 

"All  right.     I  will."     Claude  scraped  away  at  his  chin. 

She  lingered.     "Maybe  you  can  help  'em  mend  their  things, 
like  you  do  mine  fur  me,"  she  suggested  hopefully. 

"Maybe,"  he  murmured  absently. 

261 


262  One  of  Ours 


Mrs.  Wheeler  opened  the  stair  door,  and  Mahailey  dodged 
back  to  the  stove. 

After  breakfast  Dan  went  out  to  the  fields  with  the  har- 
vesters. Ralph  and  Claude  and  Mr.  Wheeler  were  busy  with 
the  car  all  morning. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  kept  throwing  her  apron  over  her  head  and  go- 
ing down  the  hill  to  see  what  they  were  doing.  Whether 
there  was  really  something  the  matter  with  the  engine,  or 
whether  the  men  merely  made  it  a  pretext  for  being  together 
and  keeping  away  from  the  house,  she  did  not  know.  She 
felt  that  her  presence  was  not  much  desired,  and  at  last  she 
went  upstairs  and  resignedly  watched  them  from  the  sitting- 
room  window.  Presently  she  heard  Ralph  run  up  to  the  third 
storey.  When  he  came  down  with  Claude's  bags  in  his  hands, 
he  stuck  his  head  in  at  the  door  and  shouted  cheerfully  to  his 
mother : 

"No  hurry.     I'm  just  taking  them  down  so  they'll  be  ready/1 

Mrs.  Wheeler  ran  after  him,  calling  faintly,  "Wait,  Ralph ! 
Are  you  sure  he's  got  everything  in?  I  didn't  hear  him  pack- 
ing." 

"Everything  ready.  He  says  he  won't  have  to  go  upstairs 
again.  He'll  be  along  pretty  soon.  There's  lots  of  time." 
Ralph  shot  down  through  the  basement. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  sat  down  in  her  reading  chair.  They  wanted 
to  keep  her  away,  and  it  was  a  little  selfish  of  them.  Why 
couldn't  they  spend  these  last  hours  quietly  in  the  house,  instead 
of  dashing  in  and  out  to  frighten  her.  Now  she  could  hear 
the  hot  water  running  in  the  kitchen;  probably  Mr.  Wheeler 
had  come  in  to  wash  his  hands.  She  felt  really  too  weak  to 
get  up  and  go  to  the  west  window  to  see  if  he  were  still  down 
at  the  garage.  Waiting  was  now  a  matter  of  seconds,  and  her 
breath  came  short  enough  as  it  was. 


Sunrise  on  the  Prairie  263 

She  recognized  a  heavy,  hob-nailed  boot  on  the  stairs, 
mounting  quickly.  When  Claude  entered,  carrying  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  she  saw  by  his  walk,  his  shoulders,  and  the  way 
he  held  his  head,  that  the  moment  had  come,  and  that  he 
meant  to  make  it  short.  She  rose,  reaching  toward  him  as 
he  came  up  to  her  and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  She  was 
smiling  her  little,  curious  intimate  smile,  with  half-closed  eyes. 

"Well,  is  it  good-bye?"  she  murmured.  She  passed  her 
hands  over  his  shoulders,  down  his  strong  back  and  the  close- 
fitting  sides  of  his  coat,  as  if  she  were  taking  the  mould  and 
measure  of  his  mortal  frame.  Her  chin  came  just  to  his 
breast  pocket,  and  she  rubbed  it  against  the  heavy  cloth. 
Claude  stood  looking  down  at  her  without  speaking  a  word. 
Suddenly  his  arms  tightened  and  he  almost  crushed  her. 

"Mother!"  he  whispered  as  he  kissed  her.  He  ran  down- 
stairs and  out  of  the  house  without  looking  back. 

She  struggled  up  from  the  chair  where  she  had  sunk  and 
crept  to  the  window;  he  was  vaulting  down  the  hill  as  fast 
as  he  could  go.  He  jumped  into  the  car  beside  his  father. 
Ralph  was  already  at  the  wheel,  and  Claude  had  scarcely 
touched  the  cushions  when  they  were  off.  They  ran  down  the 
creek  and  over  the  bridge,  then  up  the  long  hill  on  the  other 
side.  As  they  neared  the  crest  of  the  hill,  Claude  stood  up  in 
the  car  and  looked  back  at  the  house,  waving  his  cone-shaped 
hat.  She  leaned  out  and  strained  her  sight,  but  her  tears 
blurred  everything.  The  brown,  upright  figure  seemed  to 
float  out  of  the  car  and  across  the  fields,  and  before  he  was 
actually  gone,  she  lost  him.  She  fell  back  against  the  window- 
sill,  clutching  her  temples  with  both  hands,  and  broke  into 
choking,  passionate  speech.  "Old  eyes,"  she  cried,  "why  do 
you  betray  me?  Why  do  you  cheat  me  of  my  last  sight  of 
my  splendid  son !" 


BOOK  FOUR: 
THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  ANCHISES 


ALONG  train  of  crowded  cars,  the  passengers  all  of  the 
same  sex,  almost  of  the  same  age,  all  dressed  and 
hatted  alike,  was  slowly  steaming  through  the  green 
sea-meadows  late  on  a  summer  afternoon.  In  the  cars,  in- 
cessant stretching  of  cramped  legs,  shifting  of  shoulders,  strik- 
ing of  matches,  passing  of  cigarettes,  groans  of  boredom; 
occasionally  concerted  laughter  about  nothing.  Suddenly 
the  train  stops  short.  Clipped  heads  and  tanned  faces  pop 
out  at  every  window.  The  boys  begin  to  moan  and  shout; 
what  is  the  matter  now? 

The  conductor  goes  through  the  cars,  saying  something 
about  a  freight  wreck  on  ahead;  he  has  orders  to  wait  here 
for  half  an  hour.  Nobody  pays  any  attention  to  him.  A 
murmur  of  astonishment  rises  from  one  side  of  the  train. 
The  boys  crowd  over  to  the  south  windows.  At  last  there  is 
something  to  look  at,  —  though  what  they  see  is  so  strangely 
quiet  that  their  own  exclamations  are  not  very  loud. 

Their  train  is  lying  beside  an  arm  of  the  sea  that  reaches 
far  into  the  green  shore.  At  the  edge  of  the  still  water  stand 
the  hulls  of  four  wooden  ships,  in  the  process  of  building. 
There  is  no  town,  there  are  no  smoke-stacks  —  very  few  work- 
men. Piles  of  lumber  lie  about  on  the  grass.  A  gasoline 
engine  under  a  temporary  shelter  is  operating  a  long  crane 
that  reaches  down  among  the  piles  of  boards  and  beams,  lifts 
a  load,  silently  and  deliberately  swings  it  over  to  one  of  the 
skeleton  vessels,  and  lowers  it  somewhere  into  the  body  of 

267 


268  One  of  Ours 


the  motionless  thing.  Along  the  sides  of  the  clean  hulls  a 
few  riveters  are  at  work;  they  sit  on  suspended  planks,  lower- 
ing and  raising  themselves  with  pulleys,  like  house  painters. 
Only  by  listening  very  closely  can  one  hear  the  tap  of  their 
hammers.  No  orders  are  shouted,  no  thud  of  heavy  machin- 
ery or  scream  of  iron  drills  tears  the  air.  These  strange 
boats  seem  to  be  building  themselves. 

Some  of  the  men  got  out  of  the  cars  and  ran  along  the 
tracks,  asking  each  other  how  boats  could  be  built  off  in  the 
grass  like  this.  Lieutenant  Claude  Wheeler  stretched  his  legs 
upon  the  opposite  seat  and  sat  still  at  his  window,  looking 
down  on  this  strange  scene.  Shipbuilding,  he  had  supposed, 
meant  noise  and  forges  and  engines  and  hosts  of  men.  This 
was  like  a  dream.  Nothing  but  green  meadows,  soft  grey 
water,  a  floating  haze  of  mist  a  little  rosy  from  the  sinking 
sun,  spectre-like  seagulls,  flying  slowly,  with  the  red  glow  ting- 
ing their  wings  —  and  those  four  hulls  lying  in  their  braces, 
facing  the  sea,  deliberating  by  the  sea. 

Claude  knew  nothing  of  ships  or  shipbuilding,  but  these 
craft  did  not  seem  to  be  nailed  together, —  they  seemed  all  of 
a  piece,  like  sculpture.  They  reminded  him  of  the  houses 
not  made  with  hands ;  they  were  like  simple  and  great  thoughts, 
like  purposes  forming  slowly  here  in  the  silence  beside  an 
unruffled  arm  of  the  Atlantic.  He  knew  nothing  about  ships, 
but  he  didn't  have  to ;  the  shape  of  those  hulls  —  their  strong, 
inevitable  lines  —  told  their  story,  was  their  story;  told  the 
whole  adventure  of  man  with  the  sea. 

Wooden  ships!  When  great  passions  and  great  aspirations 
stirred  a  country,  shapes  like  these  formed  along  its  shores  to 
be  the  sheath  of  its  valour.  Nothing  Claude  had  ever  seen 
or  heard  or  read  or  thought  had  made  it  all  so  clear  as  these 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  269 

untried  wooden  bottoms.  They  were  the  very  impulse,  they 
were  the  potential  act,  they  were  the  "going  over,"  the  drawn 
arrow,  the  great  unuttered  cry,  they  were  Fate,  they  were  to- 
morrow! .  .  . 

The  locomotive  screeched  to  her  scattered  passengers,  like 
an  old  turkey-hen  calling  her  brood.  The  soldier  boys  came 
running  back  along  the  embankment  and  leaped  aboard  the 
train.  The  conductor  shouted  they  would  be  in  Hoboken  in 
time  for  supper. 

Hoboken?    How  many  of  them  were  already  in  France! 


II 

IT  was  midnight  when  the  men  had  got  their  supper  and 
began  unrolling  their  blankets  to  sleep  on  the  floor  of 
the  long  dock  waiting-rooms, —  which  in  other  days  had 
been  thronged  by  people  who  came  to  welcome  home-coming 
friends,  or  to  bid  them  God-speed  to  foreign  shores.  Claude 
and  some  of  his  men  had  tried  to  look  about  them ;  but  there 
was  little  to  be  seen.  The  bow  of  a  boat,  painted  in  distract- 
ing patterns  of  black  and  white,  rose  at  one  end  of  the  shed, 
but  the  water  itself  was  not  visible.  Down  in  the  cobble- 
paved  street  below  they  watched  for  awhile  the  long  line  of 
drays  and  motor  trucks  that  bumped  all  night  into  a  vast 
cavern  lit  by  electricity,  where  crates  and  barrels  and  merchan- 
dise of  all  kinds  were  piled,  marked  American  Expeditionary 
Forces;  cases  of  electrical  machinery  from  some  factory  in 
Ohio,  parts  of  automobiles,  gun-carriages,  bath-tubs,  hospital 
supplies  bales  of  cotton,  cases  of  canned  food,  grey  metal 
tanks  full  of  chemical  fluids.  Claude  went  back  to  the  wait- 
ing room,  lay  down  and  fell  asleep  with  the  glare  of  an  arc- 
light  shining  full  in  his  face. 

He  was  called  at  four  in  the  morning  and  told  where  to  re- 
port to  headquarters.  Captain  Maxey,  stationed  at  a  desk  on 
one  of  the  landings,  explained  to  his  lieutenants  that  their  com- 
pany was  to  sail  at  eight  o'clock  on  the  Anchises.  It  was  an 
English  boat,  an  old  liner  pulled  off  the  Australian  trade, 
that  could  carry  only  twenty-five  hundred  men.  The  crew 
was  English,  but  part  of  the  stores, —  the  meat  and  fresh  fruit 

270 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  271 

and  vegetables, —  were  furnished  by  the  United  States  Gov- 
ernment. The  Captain  had  been  over  the  boat  during  the 
night,  and  didn't  like  it  very  well.  He  had  expected  to  be 
scheduled  for  one  of  the  fine  big  Hamburg-American  liners, 
with  dining-rooms  finished  in  rosewood,  and  ventilation  plants 
and  cooling  plants,  and  elevators  running  from  top  to  bottom 
like  a  New  York  office  building.  "However/5  he  said,  "we'll 
have  to  make  the  best  of  it.  They're  using  everything  that's 
got  a  bottom  now." 

The  company  formed  for  roll-call  at  one  end  of  the  shed, 
with  their  packs  and  rifles.  Breakfast  was  served  to  them 
while  they  waited.  After  an  hour's  standing  on  the  concrete, 
they  saw  encouraging  signs.  Two  gangplanks  were  lowered 
from  the  vessel  at  the  end  of  the  slip,  and  up  each  of  them 
began  to  stream  a  close  brown  line  of  men  in  smart  service  caps. 
They  recognized  a  company  of  Kansas  Infantry,  and  began  to 
grumble  because  their  own  service  caps  hadn't  yet  been  given 
to  them ;  they  would  have  to  sail  in  their  old  Stetsons.  Soon 
they  were  drawn  into  one  of  the  brown  lines  that  went  contin- 
uously up  the  gangways,  like  belting  running  over  machinery. 
On  the  deck  one  steward  directed  the  men  down  to  the  hold,  and 
another  conducted  the  officers  to  their  cabins.  Claude  was 
shown  to  a  four-berth  state-room.  One  of  his  cabin  mates, 
Lieutenant  Fanning,  of  his  own  company,  was  already  there, 
putting  his  slender  luggage  in  order.  The  steward  told  them 
the  officers  were  breakfasting  in  the  dining  saloon. 

By  seven  o'clock  all  the  troops  were  aboard,  and  the  men  were 
allowed  on  deck.  For  the  first  time  Claude  saw  the  profile  of 
New  York  City,  rising  thin  and  gray  against  an  opal-coloured 
morning  sky.  The  day  had  come  on  hot  and  misty.  The  sun, 
though  it  was  now  high,  was  a  red  ball,  streaked  across  with 


272  One  of  Ours 


purple  clouds.  The  tall  buildings,  of  which  he  had  heard  so 
much,  looked  unsubstantial  and  illusionary, —  mere  shadows  of 
grey  and  pink  and  blue  that  might  dissolve  with  the  mist  and 
fade  away  in  it.  The  boys  were  disappointed.  They  were 
Western  men,  accustomed  to  the  hard  light  of  high  altitudes, 
and  they  wanted  to  see  the  city  clearly ;  they  couldn't  make  any- 
thing of  these  uneven  towers  that  rose  dimly  through  the  vapour. 
Everybody  was  asking  questions.  Which  of  those  pale  giants 
was  the  Singer  Building  ?  Which  the  Woohvorth  ?  What  was 
the  gold  dome,  dully  glinting  through  the  fog?  Nobody  knew. 
They  agreed  it  was  a  shame  they  could  not  have  had  a  day  in 
New  York  before  they  sailed  away  from  it,  and  that  they 
would  feel  foolish  in  Paris  when  they  had  to  admit  they  had 
never  so  much  as  walked  up  Broadway.  Tugs  and  ferry  boats 
and  coal  barges  were  moving  up  and  down  the  oily  river, — all 
novel  sights  to  the  men.  Over  in  the  Cunard  and  French  docks 
they  saw  the  first  examples  of  the  "camouflage"  they  had  heard 
so  much  about ;  big  vessels  daubed  over  in  crazy  patterns  that 
made  the  eyes  ache,  some  in  black  and  white,  some  in  soft  rain- 
bow colours. 

A  tug  steamed  up  alongside  and  fastened.  A  few  moments 
later  a  man  appeared  on  the  bridge  and  began  to  talk  to  the  cap- 
tain. Young  Fanning,  who  had  stuck  to  Claude's  side,  told 
him  this  was  the  pilot,  and  that  his  arrival  meant  they  were 
going  to  start.  They  could  see  the  shiny  instruments  of  a  band 
assembling  in  the  bow. 

"Let's  get  on  the  other  side,  near  the  rail  if  we  can,"  said 
Fanning.  "The  fellows  are  bunching  up  over  here  because  they 
want  to  look  at  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  as  we  go  out.  They 
don't  even  know  this  boat  turns  around  the  minute  she  gets  into 
the  river.  They  think  she's  going  over  stern  first !" 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  273 

It  was  not  easy  to  cross  the  deck ;  every  inch  was  covered  by 
a  boot.  The  whole  superstructure  was  coated  with  brown 
uniforms ;  they  clung  to  the  boat  davits,  the  winches,  the  railings 
and  ventilators,  like  bees  in  a  swarm.  Just  as  the  vessel  was 
backing  out,  a  breeze  sprang  up  and  cleared  the  air.  Blue  sky 
broke  overhead,  and  the  pale  silhouette  of  buildings  on  the  long 
island  grew  sharp  and  hard.  Windows  flashed  flame-coloured 
in  their  grey  sides,  the  gold  and  bronze  tops  of  towers  began  to 
gleam  where  the  sunlight  struggled  through.  The  transport 
was  sliding  down  toward  the  point,  and  to  the  left  the  eye 
caught  the  silver  cobweb  of  bridges,  seen  confusingly  against 
each  other. 

"There  she  is !"     "Hello,  old  girl !"     "Good-bye,  sweetheart !" 

The  swarm  surged  to  starboard.  They  shouted  and  gestic- 
ulated to  the  image  they  were  all  looking  for, —  so  much  nearer 
than  they  had  expected  to  see  her,  clad  in  green  folds,  with 
the  mist  streaming  up  like  smoke  behind.  For  nearly 
every  one  of  those  twenty-five  hundred  boys,  as  for  Claude,  it 
was  their  first  glimpse  of  the  Bartholdi  statue.  Though  she 
was  such  a  definite  image  in  their  minds,  they  had  not  imagined 
her  in  her  setting  of  sea  and  sky,  with  the  shipping  of  the  world 
coming  and  going  at  her  feet,  and  the  moving  cloud-masses  be- 
hind her.  Post-card  pictures  had  given  them  no  idea  of  the 
energy  of  her  large  gesture,  or  how  her  heaviness  becomes  light 
among  the  vapourish  elements.  "France  gave  her  to  us,"  they 
kept  saying,  as  they  saluted  her.  Before  Claude  had  got  over 
his  first  thrill,  the  Kansas  band  in  the  bow  began  playing  "Over 
There."  Two  thousand  voices  took  it  up,  booming  out  over 
the  water  the  gay,  indomitable  resolution  of  that  jaunty  air. 

A  Staten  Island  ferry-boat  passed  close  under  the  bow  of 
the  transport.  The  passengers  were  office-going  people,  on 


274  One  °f  Ours 


their  way  to  work,  and  when  they  looked  up  and  saw  these 
hundreds  of  faces,  all  young,  all  bronzed  and  grinning,  they 
began  to  shout  and  wave  their  handkerchiefs.  One  of  the 
passengers  was  an  old  clergyman,  a  famous  speaker  in  his 
day,  now  retired,  who  went  over  to  the  City  every  morning  to 
write  editorials  for  a  church  paper.  He  closed  the  book  he 
was  reading,  stood  by  the  rail,  and  taking  off  his  hat  began 
solemnly  to  quote  from  a  poet  who  in  his  time  was  still 
popular.  "Sail  on,"  he  quavered, 

"Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State, 
Humanity,  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  its  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate." 

As  the  troop  ship  glided  down  the  sea  lane,  the  old  man  still 
watched  it  from  the  turtle-back.  That  howling  swarm  of 
brown  arms  and  hats  and  faces  looked  like  nothing  but  a  crowd 
of  American  boys  going  to  a  football  game  somewhere.  But 
the  scene  was  ageless ;  youths  were  sailing  away  to  die  for  an 
idea,  a  sentiment,  for  the  mere  sound  of  a  phrase  .  .  .  and  on 
their  departure  they  were  making  vows  to  a  bronze  image  in 
the  sea. 


Ill 

ALL  the  first  morning  Tod  Fanning  showed  Claude  over 
the  boat, —  not  that  Fanning  had  ever  been  on  any- 
thing bigger  than  a  Lake  Michigan  steamer,  but  he 
knew  a  good  deal  about  machinery,  and  did  not  hesitate  to 
ask  the  deck  stewards  to  explain  anything  he  didn't  know. 
The  stewards,  indeed  all  the  crew,  struck  the  boys  as  an 
unusually  good-natured  and  obliging  set  of  men. 

The  fourth  occupant  of  number  96,  Claude's  cabin,  had  not 
turned  up  by  noon,  nor  had  any  of  his  belongings,  so  the 
three  who  had  settled  their  few  effects  there  began  to  hope 
they  would  have  the  place  to  themselves.  It  would  be  crowded 
enough,  at  that.  The  third  bunk  was  assigned  to  an  officer 
from  the  Kansas  regiment,  Lieutenant  Bird,  a  Virginian,  who 
had  been  working  in  his  uncle's  bank  in  Topeka  when  he 
enlisted.  He  and  Claude  sat  together  at  mess.  When  they 
were  at  lunch,  the  Virginian  said  in  his  very  gentle  voice: 

"Lieutenant,  I  wish  you'd  explain  Lieutenant  Fanning  to  me. 
He  seems  very  immature.  He's  been  telling  me  about  a 
submarine  destroyer  he's  invented,  but  it  looks  to  me  like 
foolishness." 

Claude  laughed.  "Don't  try  to  understand  Fanning.  Just 
let  him  sink  in,  and  you'll  come  to  like  him.  I  used  to  wonder 
how  he  ever  got  a  commission.  You  never  can  tell  what  crazy 
thing  he'll  do." 

Fanning  had,  for  instance,  brought  on  board  a  pair  of  white 
flannel  pants,  his  first  and  only  tailor-made  trousers,  because 

275 


276  One  of  Ours 


he  had  a  premonition  that  the  boat  would  make  an  English 
port  and  that  he  would  be  asked  to  a  garden  party!  He  had 
a  way  of  using  big  words  in  the  wrong  place,  not  because 
he  tried  to  show  off,  but  because  all  words  sounded  alike  to 
him.  In  the  first  days  of  their  acquaintance  in  camp  he  told 
Claude  that  this  was  a  failing  he  couldn't  help,  and  that  it  was 
called  "anaesthesia."  Sometimes  this  failing  was  confusing; 
when  Fanning  sententiously  declared  that  he  would  like  to  be 
on  hand  when  the  Crown  Prince  settled  his  little  account  with 
Plato,  Claude  was  perplexed  until  subsequent  witticisms 
revealed  that  the  boy  meant  Pluto. 

At  three  o'clock  there  was  a  band  concert  on  deck.  Claude 
fell  into  talk  with  the  bandmaster,  and  was  delighted  to  find 
that  he  came  from  Hillport,  Kansas,  a  town  where  Claude 
had  once  been  with  his  father  to  buy  cattle,  and  that  all  his 
fourteen  men  came  from  Hillport.  They  were  the  town  band, 
had  enlisted  in  a  body,  had  gone  into  training  together,  and 
had  never  been  separated.  One  was  a  printer  who  helped  to 
get  out  the  Hillport  Argus  every  week,  another  clerked  in  a 
grocery  store,  another  was  the  son  of  a  German  watch  repairer, 
one  was  still  in  High  School,  one  worked  in  an  automobile 
livery.  After  supper  Claude  found  them  all  together,  very 
much  interested  in  their  first  evening  at  sea,  and  arguing  as 
to  whether  the  sunset  on  the  water  was  as  fine  as  those  they 
saw  every  night  in  Hillport.  They  hung  together  in  a  quiet, 
determined  way,  and  if  you  began  to  talk  to  one,  yon  soon 
found  that  all  the  others  were  there. 

When  Claude  and  Fanning  and  Lieutenant  Bird  were  un- 
dressing in  their  narrow  quarters  that  night,  the  fourth  berth 
was  still  unclaimed.  They  were  in  their  bunks  and  almost 
asleep,  when  the  missing  man  came  in  and  unceremoniously 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchlses  277 

turned  on  the  light.  They  were  astonished  to  see  that  he 
wore  the  uniform  of  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  and  carried  a 
cane.  He  seemed  very  young,  but  the  three  who  peeped  out 
at  him  felt  that  he  must  be  a  person  of  consequence.  He  took 
off  his  coat  with  the  spread  wings  on  the  collar,  wound  his 
watch,  and  brushed  his  teeth  with  an  air  of  special  personal  im- 
portance. Soon  after  he  had  turned  out  the  light  and  climbed 
into  the  berth  over  Lieutenant  Bird,  a  heavy  smell  of  rum 
spread  in  the  close  air. 

Fanning,  who  slept  under  Claude,  kicked  the  sagging  mat- 
tress above  him  and  stuck  his  head  out.  "Hullo,  Wheeler! 
What  have  you  got  up  there?" 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing  smells  pretty  good  to  me.  I'll  have  some  with 
anybody  that  asks  me." 

No  response  from  any  quarter.  Bird,  the  Virginian,  mur- 
mured, "Don't  make  a  row,"  and  they  went  to  sleep. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  bath  steward  came,  he  edged  his 
way  into  the  narrow  cabin  and  poked  his  head  into  the  berth 
over  Bird's.  "I'm  sorry,  sir,  I've  made  careful  search  for 
your  luggage,  and  it's  not  to  be  found,  sir." 

"I  tell  you  it  must  be  found,"  fumed  a  petulant  voice  over- 
head. "I  brought  it  over  from  the  St.  Regis  myself  in  a  taxi. 
I  saw  it  standing  on  the  pier  with  the  officers'  luggage, — a 
black  cabin  trunk  with  V.M.  lettered  on  both  ends.  Get  after 
it." 

The  steward  smiled  discreetly.  He  probably  knew  that  the 
aviator  had  come  on  board  in  a  state  which  precluded  any 
very  accurate  observation  on  his  part.  "Very  well,  sir.  Is 
there  anything  I  can  get  you  for  the  present?" 

"You  can  take  this  shirt  out  and  have  it  laundered  and 


278  One  of  Ours 


bring   it   back   to   me   tonight.     I've   no    linen    in    my    bag." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Claude  and  Fanning  got  on  deck  as  quickly  as  possible  and 
found  scores  of  their  comrades  already  there,  pointing  to  dark 
smudges  of  smoke  along  the  clear  horizon.  They  knew  that 
these  vessels  had  come  from  unknown  ports,  some  of  them 
far  away,  steaming  thither  under  orders  known  only  to  their 
commanders.  They  would  all  arrive  within  a  few  hours  of 
each  other  at  a  given  spot  on  the  surface  of  the  ocean.  There 
they  would  fall  into  place,  flanked  by  their  destroyers,  and 
would  proceed  in  orderly  formation,  without  changing  their 
relative  positions.  Their  escort  would  not  leave  them  until 
they  were  joined  by  gunboats  and  destroyers  off  whatever 
coast  they  were  bound  for, —  what  that  coast  was,  not  even 
their  own  officers  knew  as  yet. 

Later  in  the  morning  this  meeting  was  actually  accomplished. 
There  were  ten  troop  ships,  some  of  them  very  large  boats, 
and  six  destroyers.  The  men  stood  about  the  whole  morning, 
gazing  spellbound  at  their  sister  transports,  trying  to  find  out 
their  names,  guessing  at  their  capacity.  Tanned  as  they  al- 
ready were,  their  lips  and  noses  began  to  blister  under  the 
fiery  sunlight.  After  long  months  of  intensive  training,  the 
sudden  drop  into  an  idle,  soothing  existence  was  grateful 
to  them.  Though  their  pasts  were  neither  long  or  varied, 
most  of  them,  like  Claude  Wheeler,  felt  a  sense  of  relief  at 
being  rid  of  all  they  had  ever  been  before  and  facing  some- 
thing absolutely  new.  Said  Tod  Fanning,  as  he  lounged 
against  the  rail,  "Whoever  likes  it  can  run  for  a  train  every 
morning,  and  grind  his  days  out  in  a  Westinghouse  works; 
but  not  for  me  any  more !" 

The  Virginian  joined  them.     "That   Englishman  ain't  got 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  279 

out  of  bed  yet.  I  reckon  he's  been  liquouring  up  pretty  steady. 
The  place  smells  like  a  bar.  The  room  steward  was  just  com- 
ing out,  and  he  winked  at  me.  He  was  slipping  something 
in  his  pocket,  looked  like  a  banknote." 

Claude  was  curious,  and  went  down  to  the  cabin.  As  he 
entered,  the  air-man,  lying  half -dressed  in  his  upper  berth, 
raised  himself  on  one  elbow  and  looked  down  at  him.  His 
blue  eyes  were  contracted  and  hard,  his  curly  hair  disordered, 
but  his  cheeks  were  as  pink  as  a  girl's,  and  the  little  yellow 
humming-bird  moustache  on  his  upper  lip  was  twisted  sharp. 

"You're  missing  fine  weather,"  said  Claude  affably. 

"Oh,  there'll  be  a  great  deal  of  weather  before  we  get  over, 
and  damned  little  of  anything  else!"  He  drew  a  bottle  from 
under  his  pillow.  "Have  a  nip?" 

"I  don't  mind  if  I  do,"  Claude  put  out  his  hand. 

The  other  laughed  and  sank  back  on  his  pillow,  drawling 
lazily,  "Brave  boy!  Go  ahead;  drink  to  the  Kaiser." 

"Why  to  him  in  particular?" 

"It's  not  particular.  Drink  to  Hindenburg,  or  the  High 
Command,  or  anything  else  that  got  you  out  of  the  cornfield. 
That's  where  they  did  get  you,  didn't  they?" 

"Well,  it's  a  good  guess,  anyhow.    Where  did  they  get  you  ?" 

"Crystal  Lake,  Iowa.  I  think  that  was  the  place."  He 
yawned  and  folded  his  hands  over  his  stomach. 

"Why,  we  thought  you  were  an  Englishman." 

"Not  quite.  I've  served  in  His  Majesty's  army  two  years, 
though." 

"Have  you  been  flying  in  France?" 

"Yes.  I've  been  back  and  forth  all  the  time,  England  and 
France.  Now  I've  wasted  two  months  at  Fort  Worth. 
Instructor.  That's  not  my  line.  I  may  have  been  sent  over 


280  One  of  Ours 


as  a  reprimand.  You  can't  tell  about  my  Colonel,  though; 
may  have  been  his  way  of  getting  me  out  of  danger." 

Claude  glanced  up  at  him,  shocked  at  such  an  idea. 

The  young  man  in  the  berth  smiled  with  listless  compassion. 
"Oh,  I  don't  mean  Bosch  planes!  There  are  dangers  and 
dangers.  You'll  find  you  got  bloody  little  information  about 
this  war,  where  they  trained  you.  They  don't  communicate 
any  details  of  importance.  Going?" 

Claude  hadn't  intended  to,  but  at  this  suggestion  he  pulled 
back  the  door. 

"One  moment,"  called  the  aviator.  "Can't  you  keep  that 
long-legged  ass  who  bunks  under  you  quiet?" 

"Fanning  ?     He's  a  good  kid.     What's  the  matter  with  him  ?" 

"His  general  ignorance  and  his  insufferably  familiar  tone," 
snapped  the  other  as  he  turned  over. 

Claude  found  Fanning  and  the  Virginian  playing  checkers, 
and  told  them  that  the  mysterious  air-man  was  a  fellow  coun- 
tryman. Both  seemed  disappointed. 

"Pshaw !"  exclaimed  Lieutenant  Bird. 

"He  can't  put  on  airs  with  me,  after  that,"  Fanning  declared. 
"Crystal  Lake !  Why  it's  no  town  at  all !" 

All  the  same,  Claude  wanted  to  find  out  how  a  youth  from 
Crystal  Lake  ever  became  a  member  of  the  Royal  Flying 
Corps.  Already,  from  among  the  hundreds  of  strangers,  half- 
a-dozen  stood  out  as  men  he  was  determined  to  know  better. 
Taking  them  altogether  the  men  were  a  fine  sight  as  they 
lounged  about  the  decks  in  the  sunlight,  the  petty  rivalries 
and  jealousies  of  camp  days  forgotten.  Their  youth  seemed 
to  flow  together,  like  their  brown  uniforms.  Seen  in  the 
mass  like  this,  Claude  thought,  they  were  rather  noble  looking 
fellows.  In  so  many  of  the  faces  there  was  a  look  of  fine 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  281 

candour,  an  expression  of  cheerful  expectancy  and  confident 
goodwill. 

There  was  on  board  a  solitary  Marine,  with  the  stripes  of 
Border  service  on  his  coat.  He  had  been  sick  in  the  Navy 
Hospital  in  Brooklyn  when  his  regiment  sailed,  and  was  now 
going  over  to  join  it.  He  was  a  young  fellow,  rather  pale 
from  his  recent  illness,  but  he  was  exactly  Claude's  idea  of 
what  a  soldier  ought  to  look  like.  His  eye  followed  the 
Marine  about  all  day. 

The  young  man's  name  was  Albert  Usher,  and  he  came  from 
a  little  town  up  in  the  Wind  River  mountains,  in  Wyoming, 
where  he  had  worked  in  a  logging  camp.  He  told  Qaude 
these  facts  when  they  found  themselves  standing  side  by  side 
that  evening,  watching  the  broad  purple  sun  go  down  into  a 
violet  coloured  sea. 

It  was  the  hour  when  the  farmers  at  home  drive  their 
teams  in  after  the  day's  work.  Claude  was  thinking  how  his 
mother  would  be  standing  at  the  west  window  every  evening 
now,  watching  the  sun  go  down  and  following  him  in  her  mind. 
When  the  young  Marine  came  up  and  joined  him,  he  confessed 
to  a  pang  of  homesickness. 

"That's  a  kind  of  sickness  I  don't  have  to  wrastle  with," 
said  Albert  Usher.  "I  was  left  an  orphan  on  a  lonesome  ranch, 
when  I  was  nine,  and  I've  looked  out  for  myself  ever  since." 

Claude  glanced  sidewise  at  the  boy's  handsome  head,  that 
came  up  from  his  neck  with  clean,  strong  lines,  and  thought 
he  had  done  a  pretty  good  job  for  himself.  He  could  not 
have  said  exactly  what  it  was  he  liked  about  young  Usher's 
face,  but  it  seemed  to  him  a  face  that  had  gone  through  things, 
-  that  had  been  trained  down  like  his  body,  and  had  developed 
a  definite  character.  What  Claude  thought  due  to  a  manly, 


282  One  of  Ours 


adventurous  life,  was  really  due  to  well-shaped  bones; 
Usher's  face  was  more  "modelled"  than  most  of  the  healthy 
countenances  about  him. 

When  questioned,  the  Marine  went  on  to  say  that  though 
he  had  no  home  of  his  own,  he  had  always  happened  to  fall 
on  his  feet,  among  kind  people.  He  could  go  back  to  any 
house  in  Pinedale  or  Du  Bois  and  be  welcomed  like  a  son. 

"I  suppose  there  are  kind  women  everywhere,"  he  said, 
"but  in  that  respect  Wyoming's  got  the  rest  of  the  world 
beat.  I  never  felt  the  lack  of  a  home.  Now  the  U.  S.  Ma- 
rines are  my  family.  Wherever  they  are,  I'm  at  home." 

"Were  you  at  Vera  Cruz?"  Claude  asked. 

"I  guess!  We  thought  that  was  quite  a  little  party  at  the 
time,  but  I  suppose  it  will  seem  small  potatoes  when  we  get 
over  there.  I'm  figuring  on  seeing  some  first-rate  scrapping. 
How  long  have  you  been  in  the  army  ?" 

"Year  ago  last  April.  I've  had  hard  luck  about  getting  over. 
They  kept  me  jumping  about  to  train  men." 

"Then  yours  is  all  to  come.     Are  you  a  college  graduate?" 

"No.     I  went  away  to  school,  but  I  didn't  finish." 

Usher  frowned  at  the  gilded  path  on  the  water  where  the  sun 
lay  half-submerged,  like  a  big,  watchful  eye,  closing.  "I 
always  wanted  to  go  to  college,  but  I  never  managed  it.  A 
man  in  Laramie  offered  to  stake  me  to  a  course  in  the  Univer- 
sity there,  but  I  was  too  restless.  I  guess  I  was  ashamed  of 
my  handwriting."  He  paused  as  if  he  had  run  against  some 
old  regret.  A  moment  later  he  said  suddenly,  "Can  you  par- 
lez-vous  ?" 

"No.     I  know  a  few  words,  but  I  can't  put  them  together." 

"Same  here.  I  expect  to  pick  up  some.  I  pinched  quite  a 
little  Spanish  down  on  the  Border." 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  283 

By  this  time  the  sun  had  disappeared,  and  all  over  the  west 
the  yellow  sky  came  down  evenly,  like  a  gold  curtain,  on  the 
still  sea  that  seemed  to  have  solidified  into  a  slab  of  dark 
blue  stone, —  not  a  twinkle  on  its  immobile  surface.  Across 
its  dusky  smoothness  were  two  long  smears  of  pale  green, 
like  a  robin's  egg. 

"Do  you  like  the  water?"  Usher  asked,  in  the  tone  of  a 
polite  host.  "When  I  first  shipped  on  a  cruiser  I  was  crazy 
about  it.  I  still  am.  But,  you  know,  I  like  them  old  bald 
mountains  back  in  Wyoming,  too.  There's  waterfalls  you  can 
see  twenty  miles  off  from  the  plains;  they  look  like  white 
sheets  or  something,  hanging  up  there  on  the  cliffs.  And 
down  in  the  pine  woods,  in  the  cold  streams,  there's  trout  as 
long  as  my  fore-arm." 

That  evening  Claude  was  on  deck,  almost  alone;  there  was 
a  concert  down  in  the  ward  room.  To  the  west  heavy  clouds 
had  come  up,  moving  so  low  that  they  flapped  over  the  water 
like  a  black  washing  hanging  on  the  line. 

The  music  sounded  well  from  below.  Four  Swedish  boys 
from  the  Scandinavian  settlement  at  Lindsborg,  Kansas,  were 
singing  "Long,  Long  Ago."  Claude  listened  from  a  sheltered 
spot  in  the  stern.  What  were  they,  and  what  was  he,  doing 
here  on  the  Atlantic  ?  Two  years  ago  he  had  seemed  a  fellow 
for  whom  life  was  over ;  driven  into  the  ground  like  a  post, 
or  like  those  Chinese  criminals  who  are  planted  upright  in 
the  earth,  with  only  their  heads  left  out  for  birds  to  peck  at 
and  insects  to  sting.  All  his  comrades  had  been  tucked  away 
in  prairie  towns,  with  their  little  jobs  and  their  little  plans. 
Yet  here  they  were,  attended  by  unknown  ships  called  in  from 
the  four  quarters  of  the  earth.  How  had  they  come  to  be 
worth  the  watchfulness  and  devotion  of  so  many  men  and 


284  One  of  Ours 


machines,  this  extravagant  consumption  of  fuel  and  energy? 
Taken  one  by  one,  they  were  ordinary  fellows  like  himself. 
Yet  here  they  were.  And  in  this  massing  and  movement  of 
men  there  was  nothing  mean  or  common ;  he  was  sure  of  that. 
It  was,  from  first  to  last,  unforeseen,  almost  incredible.  Four 
years  ago,  when  the  French  were  holding  the  Marne,  the  wisest 
men  in  the  world  had  not  conceived  of  this  as  possible;  they 
had  reckoned  with  every  fortuity  but  this.  "Out  of  these 
stones  can  my  Father  raise  up  seed  unto  Abraham" 

Downstairs  the  men  began  singing  "Annie  Laurie." 
Where  were  those  summer  evenings  when  he  used  to  sit  dumb 
by  the  windmill,  wondering  what  to  do  with  his  life? 


IV 

THE  morning  of  the  third  day;  Claude  and  the  Vir- 
ginian and  the  Marine  were  up  very  early,  standing 
in  the  bow,  watching  the  Anchises  mount  the  fresh- 
blowing  hills  of  water,  her  prow,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  always 
a  dull  triangle  against  the  glitter.     Their  escorts  looked  like 
dream  ships,  soft  and  iridescent  as  shell  in  the  pearl-coloured 
tints  of  the  morning.     Only  the  dark  smudges  of  smoke  told 
that  they  were  mechanical  realities  with  stokers  and  engines. 

While  the  three  stood  there,  a  sergeant  brought  Claude  word 
that  two  of  his  men  would  have  to  report  at  sick-call. 
Corporal  Tannhauser  had  had  such  an  attack  of  nose-bleed 
during  the  night  that  the  sergeant  thought  he  might  die 
before  they  got  it  stopped.  Tannhauser  was  up  now,  and 
in  the  breakfast  line,  but  the  sergeant  was  sure  he  ought  not 
to  be.  This  Fritz  Tannhauser  was  the  tallest  man  in  the  com- 
pany, a  German-American  boy  who,  when  asked  his  name, 
usually  said  that  his  name  was  Dennis  and  that  he  was  of  Irish 
descent.  Even  this  morning  he  tried  to  joke,  and  pointing  to 
his  big  red  face  told  Claude  he  thought  he  had  measles.  "Only 
they  ain't  German  measles,  Lieutenant,"  he  insisted. 

Medical  inspection  took  a  long  while  that  morning.  There 
seemed  to  be  an  outbreak  of  sickness  on  board.  When  Claude 
brought  his  two  men  up  to  the  Doctor,  he  told  them  to  go  below 
and  get  into  bed.  As  they  left  he  turned  to  Claude. 

"Give  them  hot  tea,  and  pile  army  blankets  on  them.  Make 
them  sweat  if  you  can." 

285 


286  One  of  Ours 


Claude  remarked  that  the  hold  wasn't  a  very  cheerful  place 
for  sick  men. 

"I  know  that,  Lieutenant,  but  there  are  a  number  of  sick 
men  this  morning,  and  the  only  other  physician  on  board  is 
the  sickest  of  the  lot.  There's  the  ship's  doctor,  of  course, 
but  he's  only  responsible  for  the  crew,  and  so  far  he  doesn't 
seem  interested.  I've  got  to  overhaul  the  hospital  and  the  med- 
ical stores  this  morning." 

"Is  there  an  epidemic  of  some  sort  ?" 

"Well,  I  hope  not.  But  I'll  have  plenty  to  do  today,  so  I 
count  on  you  to  look  after  those  two."  The  doctor  was  a  New 
Englander  who  had  joined  them  at  Hoboken.  He  was  a 
brisk,  trim  man,  with  piercing  eyes,  clean-cut  features,  and 
grey  hair  just  the  colour  of  his  pale  face.  Claude  felt  at  once 
that  he  knew  his  business,  and  he  went  below  to  carry  out  in- 
structions as  well  as  he  could. 

When  he  came  up  from  the  hold,  he  saw  the  aviator  —  whose 
name,  he  had  learned,  was  Victor  Morse  — •  smoking  by  the  rail. 
This  cabin-mate  still  piqued  his  curiosity. 

"First  time  you've  been  up,  isn't  it?" 

The  aviator  was  looking  at  the  distant  smoke  plumes  over 
the  quivering,  bright  water.  "Time  enough.  I  wish  I  knew 
where  we  are  heading  for.  It  will  be  awfully  awkward  for  me 
if  we  make  a  French  port." 

"I  thought  you  said  you  were  to  report  in  France." 

"I  am.  But  I  want  to  report  in  London  first."  He  con- 
tinued to  gaze  off  at  the  painted  ships.  Claude  noticed  that  in 
standing  he  held  his  chin  very  high.  His  eyes,  now  that  he 
was  quite  sober,  were  brilliantly  young  and  daring;  they 
seemed  scornful  of  things  about  him.  He  held  himself  con- 
spicuously apart,  as  if  he  were  not  among  his  own  kind. 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  287 

Claude  had  seen  a  captured  crane,  tied  by  its  leg  to  a  hencoop, 
behave  exactly  like  that  among  Mahailey's  chickens;  hold  its 
wings  to  its  sides,  and  move  its  head  about  quickly  and  glare. 

"I  suppose  you  have  friends  in  London?"  he  asked. 

"Rather !"  the  aviator  replied  with  feeling. 

"Do  you  like  it  better  than  Paris?" 

"I  shouldn't  imagine  anything  was  much  better  than  London. 
I've  not  been  in  Paris ;  always  went  home  when  I  was  on  leave. 
They  work  us  pretty  hard.  In  the  infantry  and  artillery  our 
men  get  only  a  fortnight  off  in  twelve  months.  I  understand 
the  Americans  have  leased  the  Riviera, —  recuperated  at  Nice 
and  Monte  Carlo.  The  only  Cook's  tour  we  had  was  Gallipoli," 
he  added  grimly. 

Victor  had  gone  a  good  way  toward  acquiring  an  English 
accent,  the  boys  thought.  At  least  he  said  'necess'ry'  and 
'dysent'ry'  and  called  his  suspenders  'braces.'  He  offered 
Claude  a  cigarette,  remarking  that  his  cigars  were  in  his  lost 
trunk. 

"Take  one  of  mine.  My  brother  sent  me  two  boxes  just 
before  we  sailed.  I'll  put  a  box  in  your  bunk  next  time  I 
go  down.  They're  good  ones." 

The  young  man  turned  and  looked  him  over  with  surprise. 
"I  say,  that's  very  decent  of  you!  Yes,  thank  you,  I  will." 

Claude  had  tried  yesterday,  when  he  lent  Victor  some 
shirts,  to  make  him  talk  about  his  aerial  adventures,  but  upon 
that  subject  he  was  as  close  as  a  clam.  He  admitted  that 
the  long  red  scar  on  his  upper  arm  had  been  drilled  by  a 
sharpshooter  from  a  German  Fokker,  but  added  hurriedly  that 
it  was  of  no  consequence,  as  he  had  made  a  good  landing. 
Now,  on  the  strength  of  the  cigars,  Claude  thought  he  would 
probe  a  little  further.  He  asked  whether  there  was  anything 


288  One  of  Ours 


in  the  lost  trunk  that  couldn't  be  replaced,  anything  "valuable." 

"There's  one  thing  that's  positively  invaluable;  a  Zeiss 
lens,  in  perfect  condition.  I've  got  several  good  photographic 
outfits  from  time  to  time,  but  the  lenses  are  always  cracked 
by  heat, —  the  things  usually  come  down  on  fire.  This  one  I 
got  out  of  a  plane  I  brought  down  up  at  Bar-le-Duc,  and 
there's  not  a  scratch  on  it ;  simply  a  miracle." 

"You  get  all  the  loot  when  you  bring  down  a  machine, 
do  you?"  Claude  asked  encouragingly. 

"Of  course.  I've  a  good  collection;  alimeters  and  compasses 
and  glasses.  This  lens  I  always  carry  with  me,  because  I'm 
afraid  to  leave  it  anywhere." 

"I  suppose  it  makes  a  fellow  feel  pretty  fine  to  bring  down 
one  of  those  German  planes." 

"Sometimes.  I  brought  down  one  too  many,  though;  it 
was  very  unpleasant."  Victor  paused,  frowning.  But  Claude's 
open,  credulous  face  was  too  much  for  his  reserve.  "I  brought 
down  a  woman  once.  She  was  a  plucky  devil,  flew  a  scout- 
ing machine  and  had  bothered  us  a  bit,  going  over  our  lines. 
Naturally,  we  didn't  know  it  was  a  woman  until  she  came 
down.  She  was  crushed  underneath  things.  She  lived  a 
few  hours  and  dictated  a  letter  to  her  people.  I  went  out 
and  dropped  it  inside  their  lines.  It  was  nasty  business.  I 
was  quite  knocked  out.  I  got  a  fortnight's  leave  in  London, 
though.  Wheeler/'  he  broke  out  suddenly,  "I  wish  I  knew 
we  were  going  there  now !" 

"I'd  like  it  well  enough  if  we  were." 

Victor  shrugged.  "I  should  hope  so!"  He  turned  his  chin 
in  Claude's  direction.  "See  here,  if  you  like,  I'll  show  you 
London !  It's  a  promise.  Americans  never  see  it,  you  know. 
They  sit  in  a  Y  hut  and  write  to  their  Pollyannas,  or  they  go 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchlses 


round  hunting  for  the  Tower.  I'll  show  you  a  city  that's 
alive ;  that  is,  unless  you've  a  preference  for  museums." 

His  listener  laughed.     "No,  I  want  to  see  life,  as  they  say." 

"Umph!  I'd  like  to  set  you  down  in  some  places  I  can 
think  of.  Very  well,  I  invite  you  to  dine  with  me  at  the 
Savoy,  the  first  night  we're  in  London.  The  curtain  will  rise 
on  this  world  for  you.  Nobody  admitted  who  isn't  in  evening 
dress.  The  jewels  will  dazzle  you.  Actresses,  duchesses,  all 
the  handsomest  women  in  Europe." 

"But  I  thought  London  was  dark  and  gloomy  since  the  war." 

Victor  smiled  and  teased  his  small  straw-coloured  moustache 
with  his  thumb  and  middle  finger.  "There  are  a  few  bright 
spots  left,  thank  you !"  He  began  to  explain  to  a  novice  what 
life  at  the  front  was  really  like.  Nobody  who  had  seen 
service  talked  about  the  war,  or  thought  about  it;  it  was 
merely  a  condition  under  which  they  lived.  Men  talked  about 
the  particular  regiment  they  were  jealous  of,  or  the  favoured 
division  that  was  put  in  for  all  the  show  fighting.  Everybody 
thought  about  his  own  game,  his  personal  life  that  he  managed 
to  keep  going  in  spite  of  discipline;  his  next  leave,  how  to  get 
champagne  without  paying  for  it,  dodging  the  guard,  getting 
into  scrapes  with  women  and  getting  out  again.  "Are  you 
quick  with  your  French?"  he  asked. 

Claude  grinned.     "Not  especially." 

"You'd  better  brush  up  on  it  if  you  want  to  do  anything 
with  French  girls.  I  hear  your  M.  P.'s  are  very  strict.  You 
must  be  able  to  toss  the  word  the  minute  you  see  a  skirt,  and 
make  your  date  before  the  guard  gets  onto  you." 

"I  suppose  French  girls  haven't  any  scruples?"  Claude  re- 
marked carelessly. 

Victor  shrugged  his   narrow  shoulders.     "I  haven't   found 


290  One  of  Ours 


that  girls  have  many,  anywhere.  When  we  Canadians  were 
training  in  England,  we  all  had  our  week-end  wives.  I 
believe  the  girls  in  Crystal  Lake  used  to  be  more  or  less  fussy, 
— but  that's  long  ago  and  far  away.  You  won't  have  any 
difficulty." 

When  Victor  was  in  the  middle  of  a  tale  of  amorous  adven- 
ture, a  little  different  from  any  Claude  had  ever  heard,  Tod 
Fanning  joined  them.  The  aviator  did  not  acknowledge  the 
presence  of  a  new  listener,  but  when  he  had  finished  his  story, 
walked  away  with  his  special  swagger,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  distance. 

Fanning  looked  after  him  with  disgust.  "Do  you  believe 
him?  I  don't  think  he's  any  such  heart-smasher.  I  like  his 
nerve,  calling  you  'Lef  tenant' !  When  he  speaks  to  me  he'll 
have  to  say  Lootenant,  or  I'll  spoil  his  beauty." 

That  day  the  men  remembered  long  afterward,  for  it 
was  the  end  of  the  fine  weather,  and  of  those  first  long,  care- 
free days  at  sea.  In-  the  afternoon  Claude  and  the  young 
Marine,  the  Virginian  and  Fanning,  sat  together  in  the  sun 
watching  the  water  scoop  itself  out  in  hollows  and  pile  itself  up 
in  blue,  rolling  hills.  Usher  was  telling  his  companions  a  long 
story  about  the  landing  of  the  Marines  at  Vera  Cruz. 

"It's  a  great  old  town,"  he  concluded.  "One  thing  there  I'll 
never  forget.  Some  of  the  natives  took  a  few  of  us  out  to 
the  old  prison  that  stands  on  a  rock  in  the  sea.  We  put  in 
the  whole  day  there,  and  it  wasn't  any  tourist  show,  believe 
me!  We  went  down  into  dungeons  underneath  the  water, 
where  they  used  to  keep  State  prisoners,  kept  them  buried  alive 
for  years.  We  saw  all  the  old  instruments  of  torture;  rusty 
iron  cages  where  a  man  couldn't  lie  down  or  stand  up,  but 
had  to  sit  bent  over  till  he  grew  crooked.  It  made  you  feel 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  291 

queer  when  you  came  up,  to  think  how  people  had  been  left 
to  rot  away  down  there,  when  there  was  so  much  sun  and 
water  outside.  Seems  like  something  used  to  be  the  matter 
with  the  world."  He  said  no  more,  but  Claude  thought  from 
his  serious  look  that  he  believed  he  and  his  countrymen  who 
were  pouring  over-seas  would  help  to  change  all  that;  the  old 
dungeons  and  cages  would  be  broken  open  for  ever.  The 
image  of  a  black  prison,  lying  out  in  a  blue  Gulf,  lingered  in 
his  mind,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  there. 


THAT  night  the  Virginian,  who  berthed  under  Victor 
Morse,  had  an  alarming  attack  of  nose-bleed,  and  by 
morning  he  was  so  weak  that  he  had  to  be  carried 
to  the  hospital.  The  Doctor  said  they  might  as  well  face  the 
facts;  a  scourge  of  influenza  had  broken  out  on  board,  of  a 
peculiarly  bloody  and  malignant  type.*  Everybody  was  a  little 
frightened.  Some  of  the  officers  shut  themselves  up  in  the 
smoking-room,  and  drank  whiskey  and  soda  and  played  poker 
all  day,  as  if  they  could  keep  contagion  out. 

Lieutenant  Bird  died  late  in  the  afternoon  and  was  buried 
at  sunrise  the  next  day,  sewed  up  in  a  tarpaulin,  with  an 
eighteen  pound  shell  at  his  feet.  The  morning  broke  bril- 
liantly clear  and  bitter  cold.  The  sea  was  rolling  blue  walls 
of  water,  and  the  boat  was  raked  by  a  wind  as  sharp  as  ice. 
Excepting  those  who  were  sick,  the  boys  turned  out  to  a  man. 
It  was  the  first  burial  at  sea  they  had  ever  witnessed,  and  they 
couldn't  help  finding  it  interesting.  The  Chaplain  read  the 
burial  service  while  they  stood  with  uncovered  heads.  The 
Kansas  band  played  a  solemn  march,  the  Swedish  quartette 
sang  a  hymn.  Many  a  man  turned  his  face  away  when  that 
brown  sack  was  lowered  into  the  cold,  leaping  indigo  ridges 
that  seemed  so  destitute  of  anything  friendly  to  human  kind. 
In  a  moment  it  was  done,  and  they  steamed  on  without  him. 

The  glittering  walls  of  water  kept  rolling  in,  indigo,  purple, 

*  The  actual  outbreak  of  influenza  on  transports  carrying  United 
States  troops  is  here  anticipated  by  several  months. 

292 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  293 

more  brilliant  than  on  the  days  of  mild  weather.  The  blinding 
sunlight  did  not  temper  the  cold,  which  cut  the  face  and  made 
the  lungs  ache.  Landsmen  began  to  have  that  miserable  sense 
of  being  where  they  were  never  meant  to  be.  The  boys  lay  in 
heaps  on  the  deck,  trying  to  keep  warm  by  hugging  each  other 
close.  Everybody  was  seasick.  Fanning  went  to  bed  with  his 
clothes  on,  so  sick  he  couldn't  take  off  his  boots.  Claude  lay 
in  the  crowded  stern,  too  cold,  too  faint  to  move.  The  sun 
poured  over  them  like  flame,  without  any  comfort  in  it.  The 
strong,  curling,  foam-crested  waves  threw  off  the  light  like 
millions  of  mirrors,  and  their  colour  was  almost  more  than 
the  eye  could  bear.  The  water  seemed  denser  than  before, 
heavy  like  melted  glass,  and  the  foam  on  the  edges  of  each 
blue  ridge  looked  sharp  as  crystals.  If  a  man  should  fall  into 
them,  he  would  be  cut  to  pieces. 

The  whole  ocean  seemed  suddenly  to  have  come  to  life, 
the  waves  had  a  malignant,  graceful,  muscular  energy,  were 
animated  by  a  kind  of  mocking  cruelty.  Only  a  few  hours 
ago  a  gentle  boy  had  been  thrown  into  that  freezing  water 
and  forgotten.  Yes,  already  forgotten ;  every  one  had  his  own 
miseries  to  think  about. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  wind  fell,  and  there  was  a  sinister 
sunset.  Across  the  red  west  a  small,  ragged  black  cloud 
hurried, —  then  another,  and  another.  They  came  up  out  of 
the  sea, —  wild,  witchlike  shapes  that  travelled  fast  and  met 
in  the  west  as  if  summoned  for  an  evil  conclave.  They  hung 
there  against  the  afterglow,  distinct  black  shapes,  drawing  to- 
gether, devising  something.  The  few  men  who  were  left  on 
deck  felt  that  no  good  could  come  out  of  a  sky  like  that. 
They  wished  they  were  at  home,  in  France,  anywhere  but 
here. 


VI 

THE  next  morning  Doctor  Trueman  asked  Claude  to 
help  him  at  sick  call.     "I've  got  a  bunch   of   ser- 
geants taking  temperatures,   but   it's   too   much   for 
one  man  to  oversee.     I  don't  want  to  ask  anything  of  those 
dude  officers  who  sit  in  there  playing  poker  all  the  time.     Either 
they've  got  no  conscience,  or  they're  not  awake  to  the  gravity 
of  the  situation." 

The  Doctor  stood  on  deck  in  his  raincoat,  his  foot  on  the 
rail  to  keep  his  equilibrium,  writing  on  his  knee  as  the  long 
string  of  men  came  up  to  him.  There  were  more  than  seventy 
in  the  line  that  morning,  and  some  of  them  looked  as  if 
they  ought  to  be  in  a  drier  place.  Rain  beat  down  on  the 
sea  like  lead  bullets.  The  old  Anchises  floundered  from  one 
grey  ridge  to  another,  quite  alone.  Fog  cut  off  the  cheering 
sight  of  the  sister  ships.  The  doctor  had  to  leave  his  post 
from  time  to  time,  when  seasickness  got  the  better  of  his  will. 
Claude,  at  his  elbow,  was  noting  down  names  and  temperatures. 
In  the  middle  of  his  work  he  told  the  sergeants  to  manage 
without  him  for  a  few  minutes.  Down  near  the  end  of  the  line 
he  had  seen  one  of  his  own  men  misconducting  himself, 
snivelling  and  crying  like  a  baby, —  a  fine  husky  boy  of  eighteen 
who  had  never  given  any  trouble.  Claude  made  a  dash  for  him 
and  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"If  you  can't  stop  that,  Bert  Fuller,  get  where  you  won't 
be  seen.  I  don't  want  all  these  English  stewards  standing 
around  to  watch  an  American  soldier  cry.  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing!" 

-294 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  295 

"I  can't  help  it,  Lieutenant,"  the  boy  blubbered.  "I've  kept 
it  back  just  as  long  as  I  can.  I  can't  hold  in  any  longer !" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Come  over  here  and  sit 
down  on  this  box  and  tell  me." 

Private  Fuller  willingly  let  himself  be  led,  and  dropped  on 
the  box.  "I'm  so  sick,  Lieutenant !" 

"I'll  see  how  sick  you  are."  Claude  stuck  a  thermometer 
into  his  mouth,  and  while  he  waited,  sent  the  deck  steward  to 
bring  a  cup  of  tea.  "Just  as  I  thought,  Fuller.  You've  not 
half  a  degree  of  fever.  You're  scared,  and  that's  all.  Now 
drink  this  tea.  I  expect  you  didn't  eat  any  breakfast." 

"No,  sir.     I  can't  eat  the  awful  stuff  on  this  boat." 

"It  is  pretty  bad.     Where  are  you  from?" 

"I'm  from  P-P-Pleasantville,  up  on  the  P-P-Platte,"  the 
boy  gulped,  and  his  tears  began  to  flow  afresh. 

"Well,  now,  what  would  they  think  of  you,  back  there?  I 
suppose  they  got  the  band  out  and  made  a  fuss  over  you  when 
you  went  away,  and  thought  they  were  sending  off  a  fine 
soldier.  And  I've  always  thought  you'd  be  a  first-rate  soldier. 
I  guess  we'll  forget  about  this.  You  feel  better  already,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes,  sir.  This  tastes  awful  good.  I've  been  so  sick  to 
my  stomach,  and  last  night  I  got  pains  in  my  chest.  All  my 
crowd  is  sick,  and  you  took  big  Tannhauser,  I  mean  Corporal, 
away  to  the  hospital.  It  looks  like  we're  all  going  to  die 
out  here." 

"I  know  it's  a  little  gloomy.  But  don't  you  shame  me  before 
these  English  stewards." 

"I  won't  do  it  again,  sir,"  he  promised. 

When  the  medical  inspection  was  over,  Claude  took  the 
Doctor  down  to  see  Fanning,  who  had  been  coughing  and 


296  One  of  Ours 


wheezing  all  night  and  hadn't  got  out  of  his  berth.  The 
examination  was  short.  The  Doctor  knew  what  was  the  matter 
before  he  put  the  stethoscope  on  him.  "It's  pneumonia,  both 
lungs,"  he  said  when  they  came  out  into  the  corridor.  "I 
have  one  case  in  the  hospital  that  will  die  before  morning." 

"What  can  you  do  for  him,  Doctor?" 

"You  see  how  I'm  fixed ;  close  onto  two  hundred  men  sick, 
and  one  doctor.  The  medical  supplies  are  wholly  inadequate. 
There's  not  castor  oil  enough  on  this  boat  to  keep  the  men 
clean  inside.  I'm  using  my  own  drugs,  but  they  won't  last 
through  an  epidemic  like  this.  I  can't  do  much  for  Lieuten- 
ant Fanning.  You  can,  though,  if  you'll  give  him  the  time. 
You  can  take  better  care  of  him  right  here  than  he  could  get 
in  the  hospital.  We  haven't  an  empty  bed  there." 

Claude  found  Victor  Morse  and  told  him  he  had  better 
get  a  berth  in  one  of  the  other  staterooms.  When  Victor 
left  with  his  belongings,  Fanning  stared  after  him.  "Is  he 
going?" 

"Yes.  It's  too  crowded  in  here,  if  you've  got  to  stay  in 
bed." 

"Glad  of  it.  His  stories  are  too  raw  for  me.  I'm  no  sissy, 
but  that  fellow's  a  regular  Don  Quixote." 

Claude  laughed.     "You  mustn't  talk.     It  makes  you  cough." 

"Where's  the  Virginian?" 

"Who,  Bird  ?"  Claude  asked  in  astonishment,' —  Fanning  had 
stood  beside  him  at  Bird's  funeral.  "Oh,  he's  gone,  too.  You 
sleep  if  you  can." 

After  dinner  Doctor  Trueman  came  in  and  showed  Claude 
how  to  give  his  patient  an  alcohol  bath.  "It's  simply  a  ques- 
tion of  whether  you  can  keep  up  his  strength.  Don't  try  any 
of  this  greasy  food  they  serve  here.  Give  him  a  raw  egg 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  297 

beaten  up  in  the  juice  of  an  orange  every  two  hours,  night 
and  day.  Waken  him  out  of  his  sleep  when  it's  time,  don't 
miss  a  single  two-hour  period.  I'll  write  an  order  to  your 
table  steward,  and  you  can  beat  the  eggs  up  here  in  your 
cabin.  Now  I  must  go  to  the  hospital.  It's  wonderful  what 
those  band  boys  are  doing  there.  I  begin  to  take  some  pride 
in  the  place.  That  big  German  has  been  asking  for  you.  He's 
in  a  very  bad  way." 

As  there  were  no  nurses  on  board,  the  Kansas  band  had 
taken  over  the  hospital.  They  had  been  trained  for  stretcher 
and  first  aid  work,  and  when  they  realized  what  was  happen- 
ing on  the  Anchises,  the  bandmaster  came  to  the  Doctor  and 
offered  the  services  of  his  men.  He  chose  nurses  and  or- 
derlies, divided  them  into  night  and  day  shifts. 

When  Claude  went  to  see  his  Corporal,  big  Tannhauser  did 
not  recognize  him.  He  was  quite  out  of  his  head  and  was 
conversing  with  his  own  family  in  the  language  of  his  early 
childhood.  The  Kansas  boys  had  singled  him  out  for  special 
attention.  The  mere  fact  that  he  kept  talking  in  a  tongue  for- 
bidden on  the  surface  of  the  seas,  made  him  seem  more  friend- 
less and  alone  than  the  others. 

From  the  hospital  Claude  went  down  into  the  hold  where 
half-a-dozen  of  his  company  were  lying  ill.  The  hold  was 
damp  and  musty  as  an  old  cellar,  so  steeped  in  the  smells  and 
leakage  of  innumerable  dirty  cargoes  that  it  could  not  be  made 
or  kept  clean.  There  was  almost  no  ventilation,  and  the  air 
was  fetid  with  sickness  and  sweat  and  vomit.  Two  of  the 
band  boys  were  working  in  the  stench  and  dirt,  helping  the 
stewards.  Claude  stayed  to  lend  a  hand  until  it  was  time  to 
give  Fanning  his  nourishment.  He  began  to  see  that  the  wrist 
watch,  which  he  had  hitherto  despised  as  effeminate  and  had 


298  One  of  Ours 


carried  in  his  pocket,  might  be  a  very  useful  article.  After  he 
had  made  Fanning  swallow  his  egg,  he  piled  all  the  available 
blankets  on  him  and  opened  the  port  to  give  the  cabin  an 
airing.  While  the  fresh  wind  blew  in,  he  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  his  berth  and  tried  to  collect  his  wits.  What  had 
become  of  those  first  days  of  golden  weather,  leisure  and  good- 
comradeship?  The  band  concerts,  the  Lindsborg  Quartette, 
the  first  excitement  and  novelty  of  being  at  sea:  all  that  had 
gone  by  like  a  dream. 

That  night  when  the  Doctor  came  in  to  see  Fanning,  he 
threw  his  stethoscope  on  the  bed  and  said  wearily,  "It's  a 
wonder  that  instrument  doesn't  take  root  in  my  ears  and  grow 
there."  He  sat  down  and  sucked  his  thermometer  for  a  few 
minutes,  then  held  it  out  for  inspection.  Claude  looked  at  it 
and  told  him  he  ought  to  go  to  bed. 

"Then  who's  to  be  up  and  around?  No  bed  for  me,  to- 
night. But  I  will  have  a  hot  bath  by  and  by." 

Claude  asked  why  the  ship's  doctor  didn't  do  anything  and 
added  that  he  must  be  as  little  as  he  looked. 

"Chessup?  No,  he's  not  half  bad  when  you  get  to  know 
him.  He's  given  me  a  lot  of  help  about  preparing  medicines, 
and  it's  a  great  assistance  to  talk  the  cases  over  with  him. 
He'll  do  anything  for  me  except  directly  handle  the  patients. 
He  doesn't  want  to  exceed  his  authority.  It  seems  the  English 
marine  is  very  particular  about  such  things.  He's  a  Canadian, 
and  he  graduated  first  in  his  class  at  Edinburgh.  I  gather 
he  was  frozen  out  in  private  practice.  You  see,  his  appearance 
is  against  him.  It's  an  awful  handicap  to  look  like  a  kid 
and  be  as  shy  as  he  is." 

The  Doctor  rose,  shored  up  his  shoulders  and  took  his  bag. 
"You're  looking  fine  yourself,  Lieutenant,"  he  remarked. 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  299 

"Parents  both  living?  Were  they  quite  young  when  you  were 
born?  Well,  then  their  parents  were,  probably.  I'm  a  crank 
about  that.  Yes,  I'll  get  my  bath  pretty  soon,  and  I  will 
lie  down  for  an  hour  or  two.  With  those  splendid  band  boys 
running  the  hospital,  I  get  a  little  lee-way." 

Claude  wondered  how  the  Doctor  kept  going.  He  knew  he 
hadn't  had  more  than  four  hours  sleep  out  of  the  last  forty- 
eight,  and  he  was  not  a  man  of  rugged  constitution.  His  bath 
steward  was,  as  he  said,  his  comfort.  Hawkins  was  an  old 
fellow  who  had  held  better  positions  on  better  boats,- — yes,  in 
better  times,  too.  He  had  first  gone  to  sea  as  a  bath  steward, 
and  now,  through  the  fortunes  of  war,  he  had  come  back  where 
he  began, —  not  a  good  place  for  an  old  man.  His  back  was 
bent  meekly,  and  he  shuffled  along  with  broken  arches.  He 
looked  after  the  comfort  of  all  the  officers,  and  attended  the 
doctor  like  a  valet;  got  out  his  clean  linen,  persuaded  him  to 
lie  down  and  have  a  hot  drink  after  his  bath,  stood  on  guard 
at  his  door  to  take  messages  for  him  in  the  short  hours  when 
he  was  resting.  Hawkins  had  lost  two  sons  in  the  war  and 
he  seemed  to  find  a  solemn  consolation  in  being  of  service  to 
soldiers.  "Take  it  a  bit  easy  now,  sir.  You'll  'ave  it  'ard 
enough  over  there,"  he  used  to  say  to  one  and  another. 

At  eleven  o'clock  one  of  the  Kansas  men  came  to  tell  Claude 
that  his  Corporal  was  going  fast.  Big  Tannhauser's  fever  had 
left  him,  but  so  had  everything  else.  He  lay  in  a  stupor. 
His  congested  eyeballs  were  rolled  back  in  his  head  and  only 
the  yellowish  whites  were  visible.  His  mouth  was  open  and 
his  tongue  hung  out  at  one  side.  From  the  end  of  the  corridor 
Claude  had  heard  the  frightful  sounds  that  came  from  his 
throat,  sounds  like  violent  vomiting,  or  the  choking  rattle  of 
a  man  in  strangulation, —  and,  indeed,  he  was  being  strangled. 


300  One  of  Ours 


One  of  the  band  boys  brought  Claude  a  camp  chair,  and  said 
kindly,  "He  doesn't  suffer.  It's  mechanical  now.  He'd  go 
easier  if  he  hadn't  so  much  vitality.  The  Doctor  says  he  may 
have  a  few  moments  of  consciousness  just  at  the  last,  if  you 
want  to  stay." 

"I'll  go  down  and  give  my  private  patient  his  egg,  and  then 
I'll  come  back."  Claude  went  away  and  returned,  and  sat 
dozing  by  the  bed.  After  three  o'clock  the  noise  of  struggle 
ceased ;  instantly  the  huge  figure  on  the  bed  became  again  his 
good-natured  corporal.  The  mouth  closed,  the  glassy  jellies 
were  once  more  seeing,  intelligent  human  eyes.  The  face  lost 
its  swollen,  brutish  look  and  was  again  the  face  of  a  friend. 
It  was  almost  unbelievable  that  anything  so  far  gone  could 
come  back.  He  looked  up  wistfully  at  his  Lieutenant  as  if  to 
ask  him  something.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  turned 
his  head  away  a  little. 

"Mein'  arme  Mutter!"  he  whispered  distinctly. 

A  few  moments  later  he  died  in  perfect  dignity,  not  strug- 
gling under  torture,  but  consciously,  it  seemed  to  Claude, —  like 
a  brave  boy  giving  back  what  was  not  his  to  keep. 

Claude  returned  to  his  cabin,  roused  Fanning  once  more, 
and  then  threw  himself  upon  his  tipping  bunk.  The  boat 
seemed  to  wallow  and  sprawl  in  the  waves,  as  he  had  seen 
animals  do  on  the  farm  when  they  gave  birth  to  young.  How 
helpless  the  old  vessel  was  out  here  in  the  pounding  seas,  and 
how  much  misery  she  carried!  He  lay  looking  up  at  the 
rusty  water  pipes  and  unpainted  joinings.  This  liner  was 
in  truth  the  "Old  Anchises";  even  the  carpenters  who  made 
her  over  for  the  service  had  not  thought  her  worth  the  trouble, 
and  had  done  their  worst  by  her.  The  new  partitions  were 
hung  to  the  joists  by  a  few  nails. 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  301 

Big  Tannhauser  had  been  one  of  those  who  were  most 
anxious  to  sail.  He  used  to  grin  and  say,  "France  is  the  only 
climate  that's  healthy  for  a  man  with  a  name  like  mine."  He 
had  waved  his  good-bye  to  the  image  in  the  New  York  har- 
bour with  the  rest,  believed  in  her  like  the  rest.  He  only 
wanted  to  serve.  It  seemed  hard. 

When  Tannhauser  first  came  to  camp  he  was  confused  all 
the  time,  and  couldn't  remember  instructions.  Claude  had 
once  stepped  him  out  in  front  of  the  line  and  reprimanded 
him  for  not  knowing  his  right  side  from  his  left.  When  he 
looked  into  the  case,  he  found  that  the  fellow  was  not  eating 
anything,  that  he  was  ill  from  homesickness.  He  was  one  of 
those  farmer  boys  who  are  afraid  of  town.  The  giant  baby 
of  a  long  family,  he  had  never  slept  away  from  home  a  night 
in  his  life  before  he  enlisted. 

Corporal  Tannhauser,  along  with  four  others,  was  buried 
at  sunrise.  No  band  this  time;  the  chaplain  was  ill,  so  one 
of  the  young  captains  read  the  service.  Claude  stood  by 
watching  until  the  sailors  shot  one  sack,  longer  by  half  a 
foot  than  the  other  four,  into  a  lead-coloured  chasm  in  the 
sea.  There  was  not  even  a  splash.  After  breakfast  one  of 
the  Kansas  orderlies  called  him  into  a  little  cabin  where  they 
had  prepared  the  dead  men  for  burial.  The  Army  regula- 
tions minutely  defined  what  was  to  be  done  with  a  deceased 
soldier's  effects.  His  uniform,  shoes,  blankets,  arms,  personal 
baggage,  were  all  disposed  of  according  to  instructions.  But 
in  each  case  there  was  a  residue ;  the  dead  man's  toothbrushes, 
his  razors,  and  the  photographs  he  carried  upon  his  person. 
There  they  were  in  five  pathetic  little  heaps;  what  should  be 
done  with  them? 

Claude  took  up  the  photographs  that  had  belonged  to  his 


302  One  of  Ours 


corporal;  one  was  a  fat,  foolish-looking  girl  in  a  white  dress 
that  was  too  tight  for  her,  and  a  floppy  hat,  a  little  flag  pinned 
on  her  plump  bosom.  The  other  was  an  old  woman,  seated, 
her  hands  crossed  in  her  lap.  Her  thin  hair  was  drawn  back 
tight  from  a  hard,  angular  face  —  unmistakably  an  Old-World 
face  —  and  her  eyes  squinted  at  the  camera.  She  looked  hon- 
est and  stubborn  and  unconvinced-,  he  thought,  as  if  she  did 
not  in  the  least  understand. 

"I'll   take  these,"   he   said.     "And   the  others  — just  pitch 
them  over,  don't  you  think?" 


VII 

B  COMPANY'S  first  officer,  Captain  Maxey,  was  so  sea- 
sick throughout  the  voyage  that  he  was  of  no  help  to 
his  men  in  the  epidemic.  It  must  have  been  a  fright- 
ful blow  to  his  pride,  for  nobody  was  ever  more  anxious  to 
do  an  officer's  whole  duty. 

Claude  had  known  Harris  Maxey  slightly  in  Lincoln;  had 
met  him  at  the  Erlichs'  and  afterward  kept  up  a  campus 
acquaintance  with  him.  He  hadn't  liked  Maxey  then,  and 
he  didn't  like  him  now,  but  he  thought  him  a  good  officer. 
Maxey's  family  were  poor  folk  from  Mississippi,  who  had 
settled  in  Nemaha  county,  and  he  was  very  ambitious,  not  only 
to  get  on  in  the  world,  but,  as  he  said,  to  "be  somebody."  His 
life  at  the  University  was  a  feverish  pursuit  of  social  advan- 
tages and  useful  acquaintances.  His  feeling  for  the  "right 
people"  amounted  to  veneration.  After  his  graduation,  Maxey 
served  on  the  Mexican  Border.  He  was  a  tireless  drill  master, 
and  threw  himself  into  his  duties  with  all  the  energy  of  which 
his  frail  physique  was  capable.  He  was  slight  and  fair-skinned ; 
a  rigid  jaw  threw  his  lower  teeth  out  beyond  the  upper  ones  and 
made  his  face  look  stiff.  His  whole  manner,  tense  and  nervous, 
was  the  expression  of  a  passionate  desire  to  excel. 

Claude  seemed  to  himself  to  be  leading  a  double  life  these 
days.  When  he  was  working  over  Fanning,  or  was  down  in  the 
hold  helping  to  take  care  of  the  sick  soldiers,  he  had  no  time 
to  think, —  did  mechanically  the  next  thing  that  came  to  hand. 
But  when  he  had  an  hour  to  himself  on  deck,  the  tingling 

303 


304  One  of  Ours 


sense  of  ever-widening  freedom  flashed  up  in  him  again. 
The  weather  was  a  continual  adventure;  he  had  never  known 
any  like  it  before.  The  fog,  and  rain,  the  grey  sky  and  the 
lonely  grey  stretches  of  the  ocean  were  like  something  he 
had  imagined  long  ago  —  memories  of  old  sea  stories  read  in 
childhood,  perhaps  • — and  they  kindled  a  warm  spot  in  his 
heart.  Here  on  the  Anchises  he  seemed  to  begin  where  cnild- 
hood  had  left  off.  The  ugly  hiatus  between  had  closed  up. 
Years  of  his  life  were  blotted  out  in  the  fog.  This  fog  which 
had  been  at  first  depressing  had  become  a  shelter;  a  tent 
moving  through  space,  hiding  one  from  all  that  had  been  be- 
fore, giving  one  a  chance  to  correct  one's  ideas  about  life 
and  to  plan  the  future.  The  past  was  physically  shut  off; 
that  was  his  illusion.  He  had  already  travelled  a  great  many 
more  miles  than  were  told  off  by  the  ship's  log.  When  Rand- 
master  Fred  Max  asked  him  to  play  chess,  he  had  to  stop  a 
moment  and  think  why  it  was  that  game  had  such  disagree- 
able associations  for  him.  Enid's  pale,  deceptive  face  seldom 
rose  before  him  unless  some  such  accident  brought  it  up.  If  he 
happened  to  come  upon  a  group  of  boys  talking  about  their 
sweethearts  and  war-brides,  he  listened  a  moment  and  then 
moved  away  with  the  happy  feeling  that  he  was  the  least 
married  man  on  the  boat. 

There  was  plenty  of  deck  room,  now  that  so  many  men 
were  ill  either  from  sea-sickness  or  the  epidemic,  and  some- 
times he  and  Albert  Usher  had  the  stormy  side  of  the  boat 
almost  to  themselves.  The  Marine  was  the  best  sort  of  com- 
panion for  these  gloomy  days ;  steady,  quiet,  self-reliant. 
And  he,  too,  was  always  looking  forward.  As  for  Victor 
Morse,  Claude  was  growing  positively  fond  of  him.  Victor 
had  tea  in  a  special  corner  of  the  officers'  smoking-room  every 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  30$ 

afternoon — he  would  have  perished  without  it — and  the  steward 
always  produced  some  special  garnishes  of  toast  and  jam  or 
sweet  biscuit  for  him.  Claude  usually  managed  to  join  him 
at  that  hour. 

On  the  day  of  Tannhauser's  funeral  he  went  into  the  smok- 
ing-room at  four.  Victor  beckoned  the  steward  and  told  him 
to  bring  a  couple  of  hot  whiskeys  with  the  tea.  "You're  very 
wet,  you  know,  Wheeler,  and  you  really  should.  There,"  he 
said  as  he  put  down  his  glass,  "don't  you  feel  better  with  a 
drink?" 

"Very  much.  I  think  I'll  have  another.  It's  agreeable  to 
be  warm  inside." 

"Two  more,  steward,  and  bring  me  some  fresh  lemon." 
The  occupants  of  the  room  were  either  reading  or  talking  in 
low  tones.  One  of  the  Swedish  boys  was  playing  softlv  on 
the  old  piano.  Victor  began  to  pour  the  tea.  He  had  a  neat 
way  of  doing  it,  and  today  he  was  especially  solicitous. 
"This  Scotch  mist  gets  into  one's  bones,  doesn't  it?  I  thought 
you  were  looking  rather  seedy  when  I  passed  you  on  deck." 

"I  was  up  with  Tannhauser  last  night.  Didn't  get  more 
than  an  hour's  sleep,"  Claude  murmured,  yawning. 

"Yes,  I  heard  you  lost  your  big  corporal.  I'm  sorry.  I've 
had  bad  news,  too.  It's  out  now  that  we're  to  make  a  French 
port.  That  dashes  all  my  plans.  However,  c'est  la  guerre!" 
He  pushed  back  his  cup  with  a  shrug.  "Take  a  turn  out- 
side?" 

Claude  had  often  wondered  why  Victor  liked  him,  since 
he  was  so  little  Victor's  kind.  "If  it  isn't  a  secret,"  he  said, 
"I'd  like  to  know  how  you  ever  got  into  the  British  army,  any- 
way." 

As  they  walked  up  and  down  in  the  rain,  Victor  told  his 


306  One  of  Ours 


story  briefly.  When  he  had  finished  High  School,  he  had  gone 
into  his  father's  bank  at  Crystal  Lake  as  bookkeeper.  After 
banking  hours  he  skated,  played  tennis,  or  worked  in  the 
strawberry-bed,  according  to  the  season.  He  bought  two 
pairs  of  white  pants  every  summer  and  ordered  his  shirts 
from  Chicago  and  thought  he  was  a  swell,  he  said.  He  got 
himself  engaged  to  the  preacher's  daughter.  Two  years  ago, 
the  summer  he  was  twenty,  his  father  wanted  him  to  see 
Niagara  Falls ;  so  he  wrote  a  modest  check,  warned  nis  sen 
against  saloons  —  Victor  had  never  been  inside  one  —  against 
expensive  hotels  and  women  who  came  up  to  ask  the  time 
without  an  introduction,  and  sent  him  off,  telling  him  it 
wasn't  necessary  to  fee  porters  or  waiters.  At  Niagara  Falls, 
Victor  fell  in  with  some  young  Canadian  officers  who  opened 
his  eyes  to  a  great  many  things.  He  went  over  to  Toronto 
with  them.  Enlistment  was  going  strong,  and  he  saw  an 
avenue  of  escape  from  the  bank  and  the  strawberry-bed.  The 
air  force  seemed  the  most  brilliant  and  attractive  branch  of 
the  service.  They  accepted  him,  and  here  he  was. 

"You'll  never  go  home  again,"  Claude  said  with  conviction. 
"I  don't  see  you  settling  down  in  any  little  Iowa  town." 

"In  the  air  service,"  said  Victor  carelessly,  "we  don't  con- 
cern ourselves  about  the  future.  It's  not  worth  while."  He 
took  out  a  dull  gold  cigarette  case  which  Claude  had  noticed 
before. 

"Let  me  see  that  a  minute,  will  you?  I've  often  admired 
it.  A  present  from  somebody  you  like,  isn't  it?" 

A  twitch  of  feeling,  something  quite  genuine,  passed  over 
the  air-man's  boyish  face,  and  his  rather  small  red  mouth 
compressed  sharply.  "Yes,  a  woman  I  want  you  to  meet. 
Here,"  twitching  his  chin  over  his  high  collar,  "I'll  write 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  307 

Maisie's  address  on  my  card:  'Introducing  Lieutenant 
Wheeler,  A.  E.  F.'  That's  all  you'll  need.  If  you  should 
get  to  London  before  I  do,  don't  hesitate.  Call  on  her  at  once. 
Present  this  card,  and  she'll  receive  you." 

Claude  thanked  him  and  put  the  card  in  his  pocketbook, 
while  Victor  lit  a  cigarette.  "I  haven't  forgotten  that  you're 
dining  with  us  at  the  Savoy,  if  we  happen  in  London  together. 
If  I'm  there,  you  can  always  find  me.  Her  address  is  mine. 
It  will  really  be  a  great  thing  for  you  to  meet  a  woman  like 
Maisie.  She'll  be  nice  to  you,  because  you're  my  friend." 
He  went  on  to  say  that  she  had  done  everything  in  the  world 
for  him;  had  left  her  husband  and  given  up  her  friends  on 
his  account.  She  now  had  a  studio  flat  in  Chelsea,  where  she 
simply  waited  his  coming  and  dreaded  his  going.  It  was  an 
awful  life  for  her.  She  entertained  other  officers,  of  course, 
old  acquaintances ;  but  it  was  all  camouflage.  He  was  the  man. 

Victor  went  so  far  as  to  produce  her  picture,  and  Claude 
gazed  without  knowing  what  to  say  at  a  large  moon-shaped 
face  with  heavy-lidded,  weary  eyes, —  the  neck  clasped  by  a 
pearl  collar,  the  shoulders  bare  to  the  matronly  swell  of  the 
bosom.  There  was  not  a  line  or  wrinkle  in  that  smooth  ex- 
panse of  flesh,  but  from  the  heavy  mouth  and  chin,  from  the 
very  shape  of  the  face,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  quite 
old  enough  to  be  Victor's  mother.  Across  the  photograph 
was  written  in  a  large  splashy  hand,  A  nion  aigle!  Had  Vic- 
tor been  delicate  enough  to  leave  him  in  any  doubt,  Claude 
would  have  preferred  to  believe  that  his  relations  with  this 
lady  were  wholly  of  a  filial  nature. 

"Women  like  her  simply  don't  exist  in  your  part  of  the 
world,"  the  aviator  murmured,  as  he  snapped  the  photograph 


308  One  of  Ours 


case.  "She's  a  linguist  and  musician  and  all  that.  With  her, 
every-day  living  is  a  fine  art.  Life,  as  she  says,  is  what  one 
makes  it.  In  itself,  it's  nothing.  Where  you  came  from  it's 
nothing  —  a  sleeping  sickness." 

Claude  laughed.  "I  don't  know  that  I  agree  with  you,  but 
I  like  to  hear  you  talk." 

"Well;  in  that  part  of  France  that's  all  shot  to  pieces, 
you'll  find  more  life  going  on  in  the  cellars  than  in  your  home 
town,  wherever  that  is.  I'd  rather  be  a  stevedore  in  the  Lon- 
don docks  than  a  banker-king  in  one  of  your  prairie  States. 
In  London,  if  you're  lucky  enough  to  have  a  shilling,  you  can 
get  something  for  it." 

"Yes,  things  are  pretty  tame  at  home,"  the  other  admitted. 

"Tame?  My  God,  it's  death  in  life!  What's  left  of  men 
if  you  take  all  the  fire  out  of  them?  They're  afraid  of 
everything.  I  know  them;  Sunday-school  sneaks,  prowling 
around  those  little  towns  after  dark !"  Victor  abruptly  dis- 
missed the  subject.  "By  the  way,  you're  pals  with  the  doctor, 
aren't  you?  I'm  needing  some  medicine  that  is  somewhere  in 
my  lost  trunk.  Would  you  mind  asking  him  if  he  can  put  up 
this  prescription?  I  don't  want  to  go  to  him  myself .  All  these 
medicos  blab,  and  he  might  report  me.  I've  been  lucky  dodging 
medical  inspections.  You  see,  I  don't  want  to  get  held  up  any- 
where. Tell  him  it's  not  for  you,  of  course." 

When  Claude  presented  the  piece  of  blue  paper  to  Doctor 
Trueman,  he  smiled  contemptuously.  "I  see;  this  has  been 
filled  by  a  London  chemist.  No,  we  have  nothing  of  this  sort." 
He  handed  it  back.  "Those  things  are  only  -palliatives.  If 
your  friend  wants  that,  he  needs  treatment, —  and  he  knows 
where  he  can  get  it." 

Claude  returned  the  slip  of  paper  to  Victor  as  they  left  the 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  309 

dining-room  after  supper,  telling  him  he  hadn't  been  able  to 
get  any. 

"Sorry,"  said  Victor,  flushing  haughtily.     "Thank  you  so 
much!" 


VIII 

TOD  FANNING  held  out  better  than  many  of  the 
stronger  men ;  his  vitality  surprised  the  doctors.  The 
death  list  was  steadily  growing;  and  the  worst  of  it 
was  that  patients  died  who  were  not  very  sick.  Vigorous, 
clean-blooded  young  fellows  of  nineteen  and  twenty  turned  over 
and  died  because  they  had  lost  their  courage,  because  other  peo- 
ple were  dying, —  because  death  was  in  the  air.  The  corridors 
of  the  vessel  had  the  smell  of  death  about  them.  Doctor 
Trueman  said  it  was  always  so  in  an  epidemic;  patients  died 
who,  had  they  been  isolated  cases,  would  have  recovered. 

"Do  you  know,  Wheeler,"  the  doctor  remarked  one  day 
when  they  came  up  from  the  hospital  together  to  get  a  breath 
of  air,  "I  sometimes  wonder  whether  all  these  inoculations 
they've  been  having,  against  typhoid  and  smallpox  and  what- 
not, haven't  lowered  their  vitality.  I'll  go  off  my  head  if  I 
keep  losing  men!  What  would  you  give  to  be  out  of  it  all, 
and  safe  back  on  the  farm?"  Hearing  no  reply,  he  turned 
his  head,  peered  over  his  raincoat  collar,  and  saw  a  startled, 
resisting  look  in  the  young  man's  blue  eyes,  followed  by  a 
quick  flush. 

"You  don't  want  to  be  back  on  the  farm,  do  you!  Not  a 
little  bit!  Well,  well;  that's  what  it  is  to  be  young!"  He 
shook  his  head  with  a  smile  which  might  have  been  commisera- 
tion, might  have  been  envy,  and  went  back  to  his  duties. 

Claude  stayed  where  he  was,  drawing  the  wet  grey  air  into 
his  lungs  and  feeling  vexed  and  reprimanded.  It  was  quite 

310 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchlses  311 

true,  he  realized ;  the  doctor  had  caught  him.  He  was  enjoy- 
ing himself  all  the  while  and  didn't  want  to  be  safe  anywhere. 
He  was  sorry  about  Tannhauser  and  the  others,  but  he  was  not 
sorry  for  himself.  The  discomforts  and  misfortunes  of  this 
voyage  had  not  spoiled  it  for  him.  He  grumbled,  of  course, 
because  others  did.  But  life  had  never  seemed  so  tempting 
as  it  did  here  and  now.  He  could  come  up  from  heavy  work 
in  the  hospital,  or  from  poor  Fanning  and  his  everlasting  eggs, 
and  forget  all  that  in  ten  minutes.  Something  inside  him,  as 
elastic  as  the  grey  ridges  over  which  they  were  tipping,  kept 
bounding  up  and  saying;  "I  am  all  here.  I've  left  everything 
behind  me.  I  am  going  over." 

Only  on  that  one  day,  the  cold  day  of  the  Virginian's  fu- 
neral, when  he  was  seasick,  had  he  been  really  miserable.  He 
must  be  heartless,  certainly,  not  to  be  overwhelmed  by  the 
sufferings  of  his  own  men,  his  own  friends- — but  he  wasn't. 
He  had  them  on  his  mind  and  did  all  he  could  for  them,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  just  now  that  he  took  a  sort  of  satisfaction 
in  that,  too,  and  was  somewhat  vain  of  his  usefulness  to 
Doctor  Trueman.  A  nice  attitude!  He  awoke  every  morn- 
ing with  that  sense  of  freedom  and  going  forward,  as  if  the 
world  were  growing  bigger  each  day  and  he  were  growing 
with  it.  Other  fellows  were  sick  and  dying,  and  that  was 
terrible, —  but  he  and  the  boat  went  on,  and  always  on. 

Something  was  released  that  had  been  struggling  for  a  long 
while,  he  told  himself.  He  had  been  due  in  France  since  the 
first  battle  of  the  Marne;  he  had  followed  false  leads  and  lost 
precious  time  and  seen  misery  enough,  but  he  was  on  the  right 
road  at  last,  and  nothing  could  stop  him.  If  he  hadn't  been  so 
green,  so  bashful,  so  afraid  of  showing  what  he  felt,  and  so 
stupid  at  rinding  his  way  about,  he  would  have  enlisted  in  Can- 


312  One  of  Ours 


ada,  like  Victor,  or  run  away  to  France  and  joined  the  Foreign 
Legion.  All  that  seemed  perfectly  possible  now.  Why  hadn't 
he? 

Well,  that  was  not  "the  Wheelers'  way."  The  Wheelers 
were  terribly  afraid  of  poking  themselves  in  where  they 
weren't  wanted,  of  pushing  their  way  into  a  crowd  where  they 
didn't  belong.  And  they  were  even  more  afraid  of  doing  any- 
thing that  might  look  affected  or  "romantic."  They  couldn't 
let  themselves  adopt  a  conspicuous,  much  less  a  picturesque 
course  of  action,  unless  it  was  all  in  the  day's  work.  Well, 
History  had  condescended  to  such  as  he;  this  whole  brilliant 
adventure  had  become  the  day's  work.  He  had  got  into  it  after 
all,  along  with  Victor  and  the  Marine  and  other  fellows  who 
had  more  imagination  and  self-confidence  in  the  first  place. 
Three  years  ago  he  used  to  sit  moping  by  the  windmill  because 
he  didn't  see  how  a  Nebraska  farmer  boy  had  any  "call,"  or, 
indeed,  any  way,  to  throw  himself  into  the  struggle  in  France. 
He  used  enviously  to  read  about  Alan  Seeger  and  those  fortu- 
nate American  boys  who  had  a  right  to  fight  for  a  civilization 
they  knew. 

But  the  miracle  had  happened;  a  miracle  so  wide  in  its 
amplitude  that  the  WTieelers, —  all  the  Wheelers  and  the  rough- 
necks and  the  low-brows  were  caught  up  in  it.  Yes,  it 
was  the  rough-necks'  own  miracle,  all  this;  it  was  their 
golden  chance.  He  was  in  on  it,  and  nothing  could  hinder 
or  discourage  him  unless  he  were  put  over  the  side  himself  - 
which  was  only  a  way  of  joking,  for  that  was  a  possibility 
he  never  seriously  considered.  The  feeling  of  purpose,  of 
fateful  purpose,  was  strong  in  his  breast. 


IX 

"T  OOK  at  this,  Doctor!"  Claude  caught  Dr.  Trueman 
on  his  way  from  breakfast  and  handed  him  a  written 

-* — +  notice,  signed  D.  T.  Micks,  Chief  Steward.  It 
stated  that  no  more  eggs  or  oranges  could  be  furnished  to 
patients,  as  the  supply  was  exhausted. 

The  doctor  squinted  at  the  paper.  "I'm  afraid  that's  your 
patient's  death  warrant.  You'll  never  be  able  to  keep  him 
going  on  anything  else.  Why  don't  you  go  and  talk  it  over 
with  Chessup?  He's  a  resourceful  fellow.  I'll  join  you  there 
in  a  few  minutes." 

Claude  had  often  been  to  Dr.  Chessup's  cabin  since  the 
epidemic  broke  out, —  rather  liked  to  wait  there  when  he  went 
for  medicines  or  advice.  It  was  a  comfortable,  personal  sort 
of  place  with  cheerful  chintz  hangings.  The  walls  were  lined 
with  books,  held  in  place  by  sliding  wooden  slats,  padlocked 
at  the  ends.  There  were  a  great  many  scientific  works  in 
German  and  English;  the  rest  were  Fremch  novels  in  paper 
covers.  This  morning  he  found  Chessup  weighing  out  white 
powders  at  his  desk.  In  the  rack  over  his  bunk  was  the 
book  with  which  he  had  read  himself  to  sleep  last  night ; 
the  title,  "Un  Crime  d'Amour,"  lettered  in  black  on  yellow, 
caught  Claude's  eye.  The  doctor  put  on  his  coat  and  pointed 
his  visitor  to  the  jointed  chair  in  which  patients  were  some- 
times examined.  Claude  explained  his  predicament. 

The  ship's  doctor  was  a  strange  fellow  to  come  from  Canada, 
the  land  of  big  men  and  rough.  He  looked  like  a  schoolboy, 

313 


314  One  of  Ours 


with  small  hands  and  feet  and  a  pink  complexion.  On  his 
left  cheekbone  was  a  large  brown  mole,  covered  with  silky 
hair,  and  for  some  reason  that  seemed  to  make  his  face  effem- 
inate. It  was  easy  to  see  why  he  had  not  been  successful  in 
private  practice.  He  was  like  somebody  trying  to  protect  a 
raw  surface  from  heat  and  cold ;  so  cursed  with  diffidence,  and 
so  sensitive  about  his  boyish  appearance  that  he  chose  to  shut 
himself  up  in  an  oscillating  wooden  coop  on  the  sea.  The 
long  run  to  Australia  had  exactly  suited  him.  A  rough  life 
and  the  pounding  of  bad  weather  had  fewer  terrors  for  him 
than  an  office  in  town,  with  constant  exposure  to  human 
personalities. 

"Have  you  tried  him  on  malted  milk?"  he  asked,  when 
Claude  had  told  him  how  Fanning's  nourishment  was  threat- 
ened. 

"Dr.  Trueman  hasn't  a  bottle  left.  How  long  do  you  figure 
we'll  be  at  sea?" 

"Four  days;  possibly  five." 

"Then  Lieutenant  Wheeler  will  lose  his  pal,"  said  Dr.  True- 
man, who  had  just  come  in. 

Chessup  stood  for  a  moment  frowning  and  pulling  nervously 
at  the  brass  buttons  on  his  coat.  He  slid  the  bolt  on  his  door 
and  turning  to  his  colleague  said  resolutely :  "I  can  give  you 
some  information,  if  you  won't  implicate  me.  You  can  do  as 
you  like,  but  keep  my  name  out  of  it.  For  several  hours  last 
night  cases  of  eggs  and  boxes  of  oranges  were  being  carried 
into  the  Chief  Steward's  cabin  by  a  flunky  of  his  from  the 
galley.  Whatever  port  we  make,  he  can  get  a  shilling  each  for 
the  fresh  eggs,  and  perhaps  sixpence  for  the  oranges.  They 
are  your  property,  of  course,  furnished  by  your  government; 
but  this  is  his  customary  perquisite.  I've  been  on  this  boat  six 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  315 

years,  and  it's  always  been  so.  About  a  week  before  we  make 
port,  the  choicest  of  the  remaining  stores  are  taken  to  his  cabin, 
and  he  disposes  of  them  after  we  dock.  I  can't  say  just  how  he 
manages  it,  but  he  does.  The  skipper  may  know  of  this  custom, 
and  there  may  be  some  reason  why  he  permits  it.  It's  not  my 
business  to  see  anything.  The  Chief  Steward  is  a  powerful 
man  on  an  English  vessel.  If  he  has  anything  against  me, 
sooner  or  later  he  can  lose  my  berth  for  me.  There  you  have 
the  facts." 

"Have  I  your  permission  to  go  to  the  Chief  Steward?"  Dr. 
Trueman  asked. 

"Certainly  not.  But  you  can  go  without  my  knowledge. 
He's  an  ugly  man  to  cross,  and  he  can  make  it  uncomfortable 
for  you  and  your  patients." 

"Well,  we'll  say  no  more  about  it.  I  appreciate  your  telling 
me,  and  I  will  see  that  you  don't  get  mixed  up  in  this. 
Will  you  go  down  with  me  to  look  at  that  new  meningitis 
case?" 

Claude  waited  impatiently  in  his  stateroom  for  the  doctor's 
return.  He  didn't  see  why  the  Chief  Steward  shouldn't  be 
exposed  and  dealt  with  like  any  other  grafter.  He  had  hated 
the  man  ever  since  he  heard  him  berating  the  old  bath  steward 
one  morning.  Hawkins  had  made  no  attempt  to  defend  him- 
self, but  stood  like  a  dog  that  has  been  terribly  beaten,  trem- 
bling all  over,  saying  "Yes,  sir.  Yes,  sir,"  while  his  chief  gave 
him  a  cold  cursing  in  a  low,  snarling  voice.  Claude  had  never 
heard  a  man  or  even  an  animal  addressed  with  such  contempt. 
The  Steward  had  a  cruel  face, —  white  as  cheese,  with  limp, 
moist  hair  combed  back  from  a  high  forehead, —  the  peculiarly 
oily  hair  that  seems  to  grow  only  on  the  heads  of  stewards  and 
waiters.  His  eyes  were  exactly  the  shape  of  almonds,  but  the 


316  One  of  Ours 


lids  were  so  swollen  that  the  dull  pupil  was  visible  only  through 
a  narrow  slit.  A  long,  pale  moustache  hung  like  a  fringe  over 
his  loose  lips. 

When  Dr.  Trueman  came  back  from  the  hospital,  he  declared 
he  was  now  ready  to  call  on  Mr.  Micks.  "He's  a  nasty  look- 
ing customer,  but  he  can't  do  anything  to  me." 

They  went  to  the  Chief  Steward's  cabin  and  knocked. 

"What's  wanted?"   called  a  threatening  voice. 

The  doctor  made  a  grimace  to  his  companion  and  walked  in. 
The  Steward  was  sitting  at  a  big  desk,  covered  with  account 
books.  He  turned  in  his  chair.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said 
coldly,  "I  do  not  see  any  one  here.  I  will  be — " 

The  doctor  held  up  his  hand  quickly.  "That's  all  right, 
Steward.  I'm  sorry  to  intrude,  but  I've  something  I  must 
say  to  you  in  private.  I'll  not  detain  you  long."  If  he  had 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  Claude  believed  the  Steward  would 
have  thrown  him  out,  but  he  went  on  rapidly.  "This  is 
Lieutenant  Wheeler,  Mr.  Micks.  His  fellow  officer  lies  very 
ill  with  pneumonia  in  stateroom  96.  Lieutenant  Wheeler  has 
kept  him  alive  by  special  nursing.  He  is  not  able  to  retain  any- 
thing in  his  stomach  but  eggs  and  orange  juice.  If  he  has 
these,  we  may  be  able  to  keep  up  his  strength  till  the  fever 
breaks,  and  carry  him  to  a  hospital  in  France.  If  we  can't 
get  them  for  him,  he  will  be  dead  within  twenty- four  hours. 
That's  the  situation." 

The  steward  rose  and  turned  out  the  drop-light  on  his  desk. 
"Have  you  received  notice  that  there  are  no  more  eggs  and 
oranges  on  board?  Then  I  am  afraid  there  is  nothing  I  can 
do  for  you.  I  did  not  provision  this  ship." 

"No.  I  understand  that.  I  believe  the  United  States  Gov- 
ernment provided  the  fruit  and  eggs  and  meat.  And  I  pos- 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchlses  317 

itively  know  that  the  articles  I  need  for  my  patient  are  not 
exhausted.  Without  going  into  the  matter  further,  I  warn  you 
that  I'm  not  going  to  let  a  United  States  officer  die  when  the 
means  of  saving  him  are  procurable.  I'll  go  to  the  skipper, 
I'll  call  a  meeting  of  the  army  officers  on  board.  I'll  go  any 
length  to  save  this  man." 

"That  is  your  own  affair,  but  you  will  not  interfere 
with  me  in  the  discharge  of  my  duties.  Will  you  leave  my 
cabin  ?" 

"In  a  moment,  Steward.  I  know  that  last  night  a  number 
of  cases  of  eggs  and  oranges  were  carried  into  this  room. 
They  are  here  now,  and  they  belong  to  the  A.  E.  F.  If  you 
will  agree  to  provision  my  man,  what  I  know  won't  go  any 
further.  But  if  you  refuse,  I'll  get  this  matter  investigated. 
I  won't  stop  till  I  do." 

The  Steward  sat  down,  and  took  up  a  pen.  His  large,  so'ft 
hand  looked  cheesy,  like  his  face.  "What  is  the  number  of 
the  cabin?"  he  asked  indifferently. 

"Ninety-six." 

"Exactly  what  do  you  require?" 

"One  dozen  eggs  and  one  dozen  oranges  every  twenty-four 
hours,  to  be  delivered  at  any  time  convenient  to  you." 

"I  will  see  what  I  can  do." 

The  Steward  did  not  look  up  from  his  writing  pad,  and 
his  visitors  left  as  abruptly  as  they  had  come. 

At  about  four  o'clock  every  morning,  before  even  the  bath 
stewards  were  on  duty,  there  was  a  scratching  at  Claude's 
door,  and  a  covered  basket  was  left  there  by  a  messenger  who 
was  unwashed,  half-naked,  with  a  sacking  apron  tied  round 
his  middle  and  his  hairy  chest  splashed  with  flour.  He  never 
spoke,  had  only  one  eye  and  an  inflamed  socket.  Claude 


318  One  of  Ours 


learned  that  he  was  a  half-witted  brother  of  the  Chief  Steward, 
a  potato-peeler  and  dish-washer  in  the  galley. 

Four  days  after  their  interview  with  Mr.  Micks,  when  they 
were  at  last  near  ing  the  end  of  the  voyage,  Doctor  Trueman 
detained  Claude  after  medical  inspection  to  tell  him  that  the 
Chief  Steward  had  come  down  with  the  epidemic.  "He  sent 
for  me  last  night  and  asked  me  to  take  his  case, —  won't  have 
anything  to  do  with  Chessup.  I  had  to  get  Chessup's  permis- 
sion. He  seemed  very  glad  to  hand  the  case  over  to  me." 

"Is  he  very  bad  ?" 

"He  hasn't  a  look-in,  and  he  knows  it.  Complications ; 
chronic  Bright's  disease.  It  seems  he  has  nine  children.  I'll 
try  to  get  him  into  a  hospital  when  we  make  port,  but  heT. 
only  live  a  few  days  at  most.  I  wonder  who'll  get  the  shill- 
ings for  all  the  eggs  and  oranges  he  hoarded  away.  Claude, 
my  boy,"  the  doctor  spoke  with  sudden  energy,  "if  I  ever  set 
foot  on  land  again,  I'm  going  to  forget  this  voyage  like  a  bad 
dream.  When  I'm  in  normal  health,  I'm  a  Presbyterian,  but 
just  now  I  feel  that  even  the  wicked  get  worse  than  they 
deserve.'* 

A  day  came  at  last  when  Claude  was  wakened  from  sleep 
by  a  sense  of  stillness.  He  sprang  up  with  a  dazed  fear  that 
some  one  had  died;  but  Fanning  lay  in  his  berth,  breathing 
quietly. 

Something  caught  his  eye  through  the  porthole, —  a  great 
grey  shoulder  of  land  standing  up  in  the  pink  light  of  dawn, 
(powerful  and  strangely  still  after  the  distressing  instability 
of  the  sea.  Pale  trees  and  long,  low  fortifications  .  .  .  close 
grey  buildings  with  red  roofs  .  .  .  little  sailboats  bounding  sea- 
ward ...  up  on  the  cliff  a  gloomy  fortress. 


The  Voyage  of  the  Anchises  319 

He  had  always  thought  of  his  destination  as  a  country 
shattered  and  desolated, — "bleeding  France" ;  but  he  had  never 
seen  anything  that  looked  so  strong,  so  self-sufficient,  so  fixed 
from  the  first  foundation,  as  the  coast  that  rose  before  him. 
It  was  like  a  pillar  of  eternity.  The  ocean  lay  submissive  at 
its  feet,  and  over  it  was  the  great  meekness  of  early  morning. 

This  grey  wall,  unshaken,  mighty,  was  the  end  of  the  long 
preparation,  as  it  was  the  end  of  the  sea.  It  was  the  reason 
for  everything  that  had  happened  in  his  life  for  the  last 
fifteen  months.  It  was  the  reason  why  Tannhauser  and  the 
gentle  Virginian,  and  so  many  others  who  had  set  out  with 
him,  were  never  to  have  any  life  at  all,  or  even  a  soldier's 
death.  They  were  merely  waste  in  a  great  enterprise,  thrown 
overboard  like  rotten  ropes.  For  them  this  kind  release, —  trees 
and  a  still  shore  and  quiet  water, —  was  never,  never  to  be. 
How  long  would  their  bodies  toss,  he  wondered,  in  that  inhuman 
kingdom  of  darkness  and  unrest? 

He  was  startled  by  a  weak  voice  from  behind. 

"Claude,  are  we  over?" 

"Yes,  Fanning.     We're  over." 


BOOK  FIVE: 

"BIDDING  THE  EAGLES 
OF  THE  WEST  FLY  ON 


AT  noon  that  day  Claude  found  himself  in  a  street  of 
little  shops,  hot  and  perspiring,  utterly  confused  and 
turned  about.  Truck  drivers  and  boys  on  bell-less 
bicycles  shouted  at  him  indignantly,  furiously.  He  got  under 
the  shade  of  a  young  plane  tree  and  stood  close  to  the  trunk,  as 
if  it  might  protect  him.  His  greatest  care,  at  any  rate,  was 
off  his  hands.  With  the  help  of  Victor  Morse  he  had  hired  a 
taxi  for  forty  francs,  taken  Fanning  to  the  base  hospital,  and 
seen  him  into  the  arms  of  a  big  orderly  from  Texas.  He  came 
away  from  the  hospital  with  no  idea  where  he  was  going  —  ex- 
cept that  he  wanted  to  get  to  the  heart  of  the  city.  It  seemed, 
however,  to  have  no  heart ;  only  long,  stony  arteries,  full  of  heat 
and  noise.  He  was  still  standing  there,  under  his  plane  tree, 
when  a  group  of  uncertain,  lost-looking  brown  figures,  headed 
by  Sergeant  Hicks,  came  weaving  up  the  street;  nine  men  in 
nine  different  attitudes  of  dejection,  each  with  a  long  loaf  of 
bread  under  his  arm.  They  hailed  Claude  with  joy,  straight- 
ened up,  and  looked  as  if  now  they  had  found  their  way !  He 
saw  that  he  must  be  a  plane  tree  for  somebody  else. 

Sergeant  Hicks  explained  that  they  had  been  trudging  about 
the  town,  looking  for  cheese.  After  sixteen  days  of  heavy, 
tasteless  food,  cheese  was  what  they  all  wanted.  There 
was  a  grocery  store  up  the  street,  where  there  seemed  to  be 
everything  else.  He  had  tried  to  make  the  old  woman  under- 
stand by  signs. 

"Don't  these  French  people  eat  cheese,  anyhow?  What's 

323 


324  One  of  Ours 


their  word  for  it,  Lieutenant?  I'm  damned  if  I  know,  and 
I've  lost  my  phrase  book.  Suppose  you  could  make  her  under- 
stand?" 

"Well,  I'll  try.     Come  along,  boys." 

Crowding  close  together,  the  ten  men  entered  the  shop.  The 
proprietress  ran  forward  with  an  exclamation  of  despair. 
Evidently  she  had  thought  she  was  done  with  them,  and  was 
not  pleased  to  see  them  coming  back.  When  she  paused  to  take 
breath,  Claude  took  off  his  hat  respectfully,  and  performed  the 
bravest  act  of  his  life;  uttered  the  first  phrase-book  sentence  he 
had  ever  spoken  to  a  French  person.  His  men  were  at  his 
back;  he  had  to  say  something  or  run,  there  was  no  other 
course.  Looking  the  old  woman  in  the  eye,  he  steadily  artic- 
ulated : 

"Avez-vous  du  fromage,  Madame?"  It  was  almost  inspira- 
tion to  add  the  last  word,  he  thought;  and  when  it  worked,  he 
was  as  much  startled  as  if  his  revolver  had  gone  off  in  his 
belt. 

"Du  fromage?"  the  shop  woman  screamed.  Calling  some- 
thing to  her  daughter,  who  was  at  the  desk,  she  caught  Claude 
by  the  sleeve,  pulled  him  out  of  the  shop,  and  ran  down  the 
street  with  him.  She  dragged  him  into  a  doorway  darkened  by 
a  long  curtain,  greeted  the  proprietress,  and  then  pushed  the 
men  after  their  officer,  as  if  they  were  stubborn  burros. 

They  stood  blinking  in  the  gloom,  inhaling  a  sour,  damp, 
buttery,  smear-kase  smell,  until  their  eyes  penetrated  the 
shadows  and  they  saw  that  there  was  nothing  but  cheese  and 
butter  in  the  place.  The  shopkeeper  was  a  fat  woman,  with 
black  eyebrows  that  met  above  her  nose ;  her  sleeves  were  rolled 
up,  her  cotton  dress  was  open  over  her  white  throat  and  bosom. 
She  began  at  once  to  tell  them  that  there  was  a  restriction  on 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     325 

milk  products ;  every  one  must  have  cards ;  she  could  not  sell 
them  so  much.  But  soon  there  was  nothing  left  to  dispute 
about.  The  boys  fell  upon  her  stock  like  wolves.  The  little 
white  cheeses  that  lay  on  green  leaves  disappeared  into  big 
mouths.  Before  she  could  save  it,  Hicks  had  split  a  big 
round  cheese  through  the  middle  and  was  carving  it  up  like 
a  melon.  She  told  them  they  were  dirty  pigs  and  worse  than 
the  Boches,  but  she  could  not  stop  them. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Mother,  Lieutenant?  What's  she 
fussing  about?  Ain't  she  here  to  sell  goods?" 

Claude  tried  to  look  wiser  than  he  was.  "From  what  I  can 
make  out,  there's  some  sort  of  restriction;  you  aren't  allowed 
to  buy  all  you  want.  We  ought  to  have  thought  about  that; 
this  is  a  war  country.  I  guess  we've  about  cleaned  her  out." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Hicks  wiping  his  clasp-knife. 
"We'll  bring  her  some  sugar  tomorrow.  One  of  the  fellows 
who  helped  us  unload  at  the  docks  told  me  you  can  always 
quiet  'em  if  you  give  'em  sugar." 

They  surrounded  her  and  held  out  their  money  for  her  to 
take  her  pay.  "Come  on,  ma'm,  don't  be  bashful.  What's  the 
matter,  ain't  this  good  money?" 

She  was  distracted  by  the  noise  they  made,  by  their  bronzed 
faces  with  white  teeth  and  pale  eyes,  crowding  so  close  to  her. 
Ten  large,  well-shaped  hands  with  straight  fingers,  the  open 
palms  full  of  crumpled  notes.  .  .  .  Holding  the  men  off  under 
the  pretence  of  looking  for  a  pencil,  she  made  rapid  calcula- 
tions. The  money  that  lay  in  their  palms  had  no  relation  to 
these  big,  coaxing,  boisterous  fellows ;  it  was  a  joke  to  them ; 
they  didn't  know  what  it  meant  in  the  world.  Behind  them 
were  shiploads  of  money,  and  behind  the  ships.  .  .  . 

The  situation  was  unfair.     Whether  she  took  much  or  little 


326  One  of  Ours 


out  of  their  hands,  couldn't  possibly  matter  to  the  Americans, — 
couldn't  even  dash  their  good  humour.  But  there  was  a  strain 
on  the  cheesewoman,  and  the  standards  of  a  lifetime  were  in 
jeopardy.  Her  mind  mechanically  fixed  upon  two-and-a-half ; 
she  would  charge  them  two-and-a-half  times  the  market  price 
of  the  cheese.  With  this  moral  plank  to  cling  to,  she  made 
change  with  conscientious  accuracy  and  did  not  keep  a  penny 
too  much  from  anybody.  Telling  them  what  big  stupids  they 
were,  and  that  it  was  necessary  to  learn  to  count  in  this  world, 
she  urged  them  out  of  her  shop.  She  liked  them  well  enough, 
but  she  did  not  like  to  do  business  with  them.  If  she  didn't 
take  their  money,  the  next  one  would.  All  the  same,  fictitious 
values  were  distasteful  to  her,  and  made  everything  seem 
flimsy  and  unsafe. 

Standing  in  her  doorway,  she  watched  the  brown  band  go 
ambling  down  the  street;  as  they  passed  in  front  of  the  old 
church  of  St.  Jacques,  the  two  foremost  stumbled  on  a  sunken 
step  that  was  scarcely  above  the  level  of  the  pavement.  She 
laughed  aloud.  They  looked  back  and  waved  to  her.  She 
replied  with  a  smile  that  was  both  friendly  and  angry.  She 
liked  them,  but  not  the  legend  of  waste  and  prodigality  that 
ran  before  them  —  and  followed  after.  It  was  superfluous 
and  disintegrating  in  a  world  of  hard  facts.  An  army  in  which 
the  men  had  meat  for  breakfast,  and  ate  more  every  day  than 
the  French  soldiers  at  the  front  got  in  a  week!  Their  mov- 
ing kitchens  and  supply  trains  were  the  wonder  of  France. 
Down  below  Aries,  where  her  husband's  sister  had  married, 
on  the  desolate  plain  of  the  Crau,  their  tinned  provisions  were 
piled  like  mountain  ranges,  under  sheds  and  canvas.  Nobody 
had  ever  seen  so  much  food  before ;  coffee,  milk,  sugar,  bacon, 
hams ;  everything  the  world  was  famished  for.  They  brought 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     327 

shiploads  of  useless  things,  too.  And  useless  people.  Ship- 
loads of  women  who  were  not  nurses ;  some  said  they  came  to 
dance  with  the  officers,  so  they  would  not  be  ennuyes. 

All  this  was  not  war, —  any  more  than  having  money  thrust 
at  you  by  grown  men  who  could  not  count,  was  business.  It 
was  an  invasion,  like  the  other.  The  first  destroyed  material 
possessions,  and  this  threatened  everybody's  integrity.  Dis- 
taste of  such  methods,  deep,  recoiling  distrust  of  them, 
clouded  the  cheesewoman's  brow  as  she  threw  her  money  into 
the  drawer  and  turned  the  key  on  it. 

As  for  the  doughboys,  having  once  stubbed  their  toes  on  the 
sunken  step,  they  examined  it  with  interest,  and  went  in  to 
explore  the  church.  It  was  in  their  minds  that  they  must  not 
let  a  church  escape,  any  more  than  they  would  let  a  Boche 
escape.  Within  they  came  upon  a  bunch  of  their  shipmates, 
including  the  Kansas  band,  to  whom  they  boasted  that  their 
Lieutenant  could  "speak  French  like  a  native." 

The  Lieutenant  himself  thought  he  was  getting  on  pretty 
well,  but  a  few  hours  later  his  pride  was  humbled.  He  was 
sitting  alone  in  a  little  triangular  park  beside  another  church, 
admiring  the  cropped  locust  trees  and  watching  some  old 
women  who  were  doing  their  mending  in  the  shade.  A  little 
boy  in  a  black  apron,  with  a  close-shaved,  bare  head,  came 
along,  skipping  rope.  He  hopped  lightly  up  to  Claude  and 
said  in  a  most  persuasive  and  confiding  voice : 

"Voulez-vous  me  dire  I'heure,  si  I  vous  plait,  M'sieu'  ¥ 
soldat?" 

Claude  looked  down  into  his  admiring  eyes  with  a  feeling 
of  panic.  He  wouldn't  mind  being  dumb  to  a  man,  or  even  to 
a  pretty  girl,  but  this  was  terrible.  His  tongue  went  dry,  and 
his  face  grew  scarlet.  The  child's  expectant  gaze  changed  to 


328  One  of  Ours 


a  look  of  doubt,  and  then  of  fear.  He  had  spoken  before  to 
Americans  who  didn't  understand,  but  they  had  not  turned 
red  and  looked  angry  like  this  one ;  this  soldier  must  be  ill,  or 
wrong  in  his  head.  The  boy  turned  and  ran  away. 

Many  a  serious  mishap  had  distressed  Claude  less.  He  was 
disappointed,  too.  There  was  something  friendly  in  the  boy's 
face  that  he  wanted  .  .  .  that  he  needed.  As  he  rose  he 
ground  his  heel  into  the  gravel.  "Unless  I  can  learn  to  talk 
to  the  children  of  this  country,"  he  muttered,  "I'll  go  home!" 


II 

CLAUDE  set  off  to  find  the  Grand  Hotel,  where  he  had 
promised  to  dine  with  Victor  Morse.  The  porter  there 
spoke  English.  He  called  a  red-headed  boy  in  a  dirty 
uniform  and  told  him  to  take  the  American  to  vingt-quatre. 
The  boy  also  spoke  English.  "Plenty  money  in  New  York,  I 
guess!  In  France,  no  money."  He  made  their  way,  through 
musty  corridors  and  up  slippery  staircases,  as  long  as  possible, 
shrewdly  eyeing  the  visitor  and  rubbing  his  thumb  nervously 
against  his  fingers  all  the  while. 

"Vingt-quatre,  twen'y-four,"  he  announced,  rapping  at  a 
door  with  one  hand  and  suggestively  opening  the  other. 
Claude  put  something  into  it  —  anything  to  be  rid  of  him. 

Victor  was  standing  before  the  fireplace.  "Hello,  Wheeler, 
come  in.  Our  dinner  will  be  served  up  here.  It's  big  enough, 
isn't  it?  I  could  get  nothing  between  a  coop,  and  this  at 
fifteen  dollars  a  day." 

The  room  was  spacious  enough  for  a  banquet ;  with  two  huge 
beds,  and  great  windows  that  swung  in  on  hinges,  like  doors, 
and  that  had  certainly  not  been  washed  since  before  the  war. 
The  heavy  red  cotton-brocade  hangings  and  lace  curtains  were 
stiff  with  dust,  the  thick  carpet  was  strewn  with  cigarette-ends 
and  matches.  Razor  blades  and  "Khaki  Comfort"  boxes  lay 
about  on  the  dresser,  and  former  occupants  had  left  their 
autographs  in  the  dust  on  the  table.  Officers  slept  there,  and 
went  away,  and  other  officers  arrived, —  and  the  room  remained 
the  same,  like  a  wood  in  which  travellers  camp  for  the  night. 

329 


330  One  of  Ours 


The  valet  de  chambre  carried  away  only  what  he  could  use; 
discarded  shirts  and  socks  and  old  shoes.  It  seemed  a  rather 
dismal  place  to  have  a  party. 

When  the  waiter  came,  he  dusted  off  the  table  with  his 
apron  and  put  on  a  clean  cloth,  napkins,  and  glasses.  Victor 
and  his  guest  sat  down  under  an  electric  light  bulb  with  a 
broken  shade,  around  which  a  silent  halo  of  flies  moved  un- 
ceasingly. They  did  not  buzz,  or  dart  aloft,  or  'descend  to  try 
the  soup,  but  hung  there  in  the  centre  of  the  room  as  if  they 
were  a  part  of  the  lighting  system.  The  constant  attendance 
of  the  waiter  embarrassed  Claude;  he  felt  as  if  he  were  being 
watched. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Victor  while  the  soup  plates  were  being 
removed,  "what  do  you  think  of  this  wine?  It  cost  me  thirty 
francs  the  bottle." 

"It  tastes  very  good  to  me,"  Claude  replied.  "But  then, 
it's  the  first  champagne  I've  ever  drunk." 

"Really?"  Victor  drank  off  another  glass  and  sighed.  "I 
envy  you.  I  wish  I  had  it  all  to  do  over.  Life's  too  short, 
you  know." 

"I  should  say  you  had  made  a  good  beginning.  We're 
a  long  way  from  Crystal  Lake." 

"Not  far  enough."  His  host  reached  across  the  table  and 
filled  Claude's  empty  glass.  "I  sometimes  waken  up  with  the 
feeling  I'm  back  there.  Or  I  have  bad  dreams,  and  find  my- 
self sitting  on  that  damned  stool  in  the  glass  cage  and  can't 
make  my  books  balance;  I  hear  the  old  man  coughing  in  his 
private  room,  the  way  he  coughs  when  he's  going  to  refuse 
a  loan  to  some  poor  devil  who  needs  it.  I've  had  a  narrow 
escape,  Wheeler;  as  a  brand  from  the  burning.  That's  all 
the  Scripture  I  remember." 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     331 

The  bright  red  spots  on  Victor's  cheeks,  his  pale  forehead 
and  brilliant  eyes  and  saucy  little  moustaches  seemed  to  give 
his  quotation  a  peculiar  vividness.  Claude  envied  him.  It 
must  be  great  fun  to  take  up  a  part  and  play  it  to  a  finish ;  to 
believe  you  were  making  yourself  over,  and  to  admire  the 
kind  of  fellow  you  made.  He,  too,  in  a  way,  admired  Victor, 
—  though  he  couldn't  altogether  believe  in  him. 

"You'll  never  go  back,"  he  said,  "I  wouldn't  worry  about 
that." 

"Take  it  from  me,  there  are  thousands  who  will  never  go 
back!  I'm  not  speaking  of  the  casualties.  Some  of  you 
Americans  are  likely  to  discover  the  world  this  trip  .  .  .  and 
it'll  make  the  hell  of  a  lot  of  difference!  You  boys  never 
had  a  fair  chance.  There's  a  conspiracy  of  Church  and  State 
to  keep  you  down.  I'm  going  off  to  play  with  some  girls 
tonight,  will  you  come  along?" 

Claude  laughed.     "I  guess  not." 

"Why  not?     You  won't  be  caught,  I  guarantee." 

"I  guess  not."  Claude  spoke  apologetically.  "I'm  going 
out  to  see  Fanning  after  dinner." 

Victor  shrugged.  "That  ass!"  He  beckoned  the  waiter 
to  open  another  bottle  and  bring  the  coffee.  "Well,  it's  your 
last  chance  to  go  nutting  with  me."  He  looked  intently  at 
Claude  and  lifted  his  glass.  "To  the  future,  and  our  next 
meeting!"  When  he  put  down  his  empty  goblet  he  remarked, 
"I  got  a  wire  through  today;  I'm  leaving  tomorrow." 

"For  London?" 

"For  Verdun." 

Claude  took  a  quick  breath.  Verdun  .  .  .  the  very  sound  of 
the  name  was  grim,  like  the  hollow  roll  of  drums.  Victor 
was  going  there  tomorrow.  Here  one  could  take  a  train  for 


332  One  of  Ours 


Verdun,  or  thereabouts,  as  at  home  one  took  a  train  for  Omaha. 
He  felt  more  "over"  than  he  had  done  before,  and  a  little 
crackle  of  excitement  went  all  through  him.  He  tried  to  be 
careless,. 

"Then  you  won't  get  to  London  soon?" 

"God  knows,"  Victor  answered  gloomily.  He  looked  up 
at  the  ceiling  and  began  to  whistle  softly  an  engaging  air. 
"Do  you  know  that?  It's  something  Maisie  often  plays; 
'Roses  of  Picardy.'  You  won't  know  what  a  woman  can  be 
till  you  meet  her,  Wheeler." 

"I  hope  I'll  have  that  pleasure.     I  was  wondering  if  you'd 
forgotten  her  for  the  moment.     She  doesn't  object  to  these  — 
diversions?" 

Victor  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  the  old  haughty  way.  "Women 
don't  require  that  sort  of  fidelity  of  the  air  service.  Our 
engagements  are  too  uncertain." 

Half  an  hour  later  Victor  had  gone  in  quest  of  amorous 
adventure,  and  Claude  was  wandering  alone  in  a  brightly  lighted 
street  full  of  soldiers  and  sailors  of  all  nations.  There  were 
black  Senegalese,  and  Highlanders  in  kilts,  and  little  lorry- 
drivers  from  Siam, —  all  moving  slowly  along  between  rows  of 
cabarets  and  cinema  theatres.  The  wide-spreading  branches 
of  the  plane  trees  met  overhead,  shutting  out  the  sky  and  roof- 
ing in  the  orange  glare.  The  sidewalks  were  crowded  with 
chairs  and  little  tables,  at  which  marines  and  soldiers  sat  drink- 
ing sirrups  and  cognac  and  coffee.  From  every  doorway 
music-machines  poured  out  jazz  tunes  and  strident  Sousa 
marches.  The  noise  was  stupefying.  Out  in  the  middle  of 
the  street  a  band  of  bareheaded  girls,  hardy  and  tough  looking, 
were  following  a  string  of  awkward  Americans,  running  into 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     333 

them,  elbowing  them,  asking  for  treats,  crying,  "You  dance  me 
Fausse-trot,  Sammie.?" 

Claude  stationed  himself  before  a  movie  theatre,  where  the 
sign  in  electric  lights  read,  "Amour,  quand  tu  nous  tiens!" 
and  stood  watching  the  people.  In  the  stream  that  passed 
him,  his  eye  lit  upon  two  walking  arm-in-arm,  their  hands 
clasped,  talking  eagerly  and  unconscious  of  the  crowd, —  dif- 
ferent, he  saw  at  once,  from  all  the  other  strolling,  affectionate 
couples. 

The  man  wore  the  American  uniform;  his  left  arm  had 
been  amputated  at  the  elbow,  and  he  carried  his  head  awry, 
as  if  he  had  a  stiff  neck.  His  dark,  lean  face  wore  an  ex- 
pression of  intense  anxiety,  his  eyebrows  twitched  as  if  he 
were  in  constant  pain.  The  girl,  too,  looked  troubled.  As 
they  passed  him,  under  the  red  light  of  the  Amour  sign, 
Claude  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  They  were 
wide,  blue  eyes,  innocent  looking,  and  she  had  the  prettiest 
face  he  had  seen  since  he  landed.  From  her  silk  shawl,  and 
little  bonnet  with  blue  strings  and  a  white  frill,  he  thought 
she  must  be  a  country  girl.  As  she  listened  to  the  soldier, 
with  her  mouth  half -open,  he  saw  a  space  between  her  two 
front  teeth,  as  with  children  whose  second  teeth  have  just 
come.  While  they  pushed  along  in  the  crowd  she  looked 
up  intently  at  the  man  beside  her,  or  off  into  the  blur  of  light, 
where  she  evidently  saw  nothing.  Her  face,  young  and  soft, 
seemed  new  to  emotion,  and  her  bewildered  look  made  one  feel 
that  she  did  not  know  where  to  turn. 

Without  realizing  what  he  did,  Claude  followed  them  out 
of  the  crowd  into  a  quiet  street,  and  on  into  another,  even 
more  deserted,  where  the  houses  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
asleep  a  long  while-  Here  there  were  no  street  lamps,  not 


One  of  Ours 


even  a  light  in  the  windows,  but  natural  darkness;  with  the 
moon  high  overhead  throwing  sharp  shadows  across  the  white 
cobble  paving.  The  narrow  street  made  a  bend,  and  he  came 
out  upon  the  church  he  and  his  comrades  had  entered  that 
afternoon.  It  looked  larger  by  night,  and  but  for  the  sunken 
step,  he  might  not  have  been  sure  it  was  the  same.  The 
dark  neighbouring  houses  seemed  to  lean  toward  it,  the  moon- 
light shone  silver-grey  upon  its  battered  front. 

The  two  walking  before  him  ascended  the  steps  and  with- 
drew into  the  deep  doorway,  where  they  clung  together  in 
an  embrace  so  long  and  still  that  it  was  like  death.  At  last 
they  drew  shuddering  apart.  The  girl  sat  down  on  the  stone 
bench  beside  the  door.  The  soldier  threw  himself  upon  the 
pavement  at  her  feet,  and  rested  his  head  on  her  knee,  his  one 
arm  lying  across  her  lap. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  houses  opposite,  Claude  kept  watch 
like  a  sentinel,  ready  to  take  their  part  if  any  alarm  should 
startle  them.  The  girl  bent  over  her  soldier,  stroking  his 
head  so  softly  that  she  might  have  been  putting  him  to  sleep; 
took  his  one  hand  and  held  it  against  her  bosom  as  if  to  stop 
the  pain  there.  Just  behind  her,  on  the  sculptured  portal, 
some  old  bishop,  with  a  pointed  cap  and  a  broken  crozier, 
stood,  holding  up  two  fingers. 


Ill 

THE  next  morning  when  Claude  arrived  at  the  hospital 
to  see  Fanning,  he  found  every  one  too  busy  to  take 
account  of  him.  The  courtyard  was  full  of  am- 
bulances, and  a  long  line  of  camions  waited  outside  the  gate.  A 
train-load  of  wounded  Americans  had  come  in,  sent  back  from 
evacuation  hospitals  to  await  transportation  home. 

As  the  men  were  carried  past  him,  he  thought  they  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  sick  a  long  while  —  looked,  indeed,  as  if 
they  could  never  get  well.  The  boys  who  died  on  board  the 
Anchises  had  never  seemed  as  sick  as  these  did.  Their  skin 
was  yellow  or  purple,  their  eyes  were  sunken,  their  lips  sore. 
Everything  that  belonged  to  health  had  left  them,  every  at- 
tribute of  youth  was  gone.  One  poor  fellow,  whose  face  and 
trunk  were  wrapped  in  cotton,  never  stopped  moaning,  and 
as  he  was  carried  up  the  corridor  he  smelled  horribly.  The 
Texas  orderly  remarked  to  Claude,  "In  the  beginning  that  one 
only  had  a  finger  blown  off;  would  you  believe  it?" 

These  were  the  first  wounded  men  Claude  had  seen.  To 
shed  bright  blood,  to  wear  the  red  badge  of  courage, —  that 
was  one  thing ;  but  to  be  reduced  to  this  was  quite  another. 
Surely,  the  sooner  these  boys  died,  the  better. 

The  Texan,  passing  with  his  next  load,  asked  Claude  why 
he  didn't  go  into  the  office  and  wait  until  the  rush  was  over. 
Looking  in  through  the  glass  door,  Claude  noticed  a  young 
man  writing  at  a  desk  enclosed  by  a  railing.  Something  about 
his  figure,  about  the  way  he  held  his  head,  was  familiar. 

335 


336  One  of  Ours 


When  he  lifted  his  left  arm  to  prop  open  the  page  of  his 
ledger,  it  was  a  stump  below  the  elbow.  Yes,  there  could 
be  no  doubt  about  it;  the  pale,  sharp  face,  the  beak  nose,  the 
frowning,  uneasy  brow.  Presently,  as  if  he  felt  a  curious  eye 
upon  him,  the  young  man  paused  in  his  rapid  writing,  wrig- 
gled his  shoulders,  put  an  iron  paperweight  on  the  page  of 
his  book,  took  a  case  from  his  pocket  and  shook  a  cigarette 
out  on  the  table.  Going  up  to  the  railing,  Claude  offered 
him  a  cigar.  "No,  thank  you.  I  don't  use  them  any  more. 
They  seem  too  heavy  for  me."  He  struck  a  match,  moved 
his  shoulders  again  as  if  they  were  cramped,  and  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  his  desk. 

"Where  do  these  wounded  men  come  from?"  Claude  asked. 
"I  just  got  in  on  the  Anchises  yesterday." 

"They  come  from  various  evacuation  hospitals.  I  believe 
most  of  them  are  the  Beileau  Wood  lot." 

"Where  did  you  lose  your  arm?" 

"Cantigny.  I  was  in  the  First  Division.  I'd  been  over 
since  last  September,  waiting  for  something  to  happen,  and 
then  got  fixed  in  my  first  engagement." 

"Can't  you  go  home?" 

"Yes,  I  could.  But  I  don't  want  to.  I've  got  used  to 
things  over  here.  I  was  attached  to  Headquarters  in  Paris 
for  awhile." 

Claude  leaned  across  the  rail.  "We  read  about  Cantigny 
at  home,  of  course.  We  were  a  good  deal  excited;  I  suppose 
you  were?" 

"Yes,  we  were  nervous.  We  hadn't  been  under  fire,  and 
we'd  been  fed  up  on  all  that  stuff  about  it's  taking  fifty  years 
to  build  a  fighting  machine.  The  Hun  had  a  strong  position; 
we  looked  up  that  long  hill  and  wondered  how  we  were  going 


''Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     337 

to  behave."  As  he  talked  the  boy's  eyes  seemed  to  be  mov- 
ing all  the  time,  probably  because  he  could  not  move  his 
head  at  all.  After  blowing  out  deep  clouds  of  smoke  until 
his  cigarette  was  gone,  he  sat  down  to  his  ledger  and  frowned 
at  the  page  in  a  way  which  said  he  was  too  busy  to  talk. 

Claude  saw  Dr.  Trueman  standing  in  the  doorway,  waiting 
for  him.  They  made  their  morning  call  on  Fanning,  and 
left  the  hospital  together.  The  Doctor  turned  to  him  as  if 
he  had  something  on  his  mind. 

"I  saw  you  talking  to  that  wry-necked  boy.  How  did  he 
seem,  all  right?" 

"Not  exactly.  That  is,  he  seems  very  nervous.  Do  you 
know  anything  about  him?" 

"Oh,  yes!  He's  a  star  patient  here,  a  psychopathic  case. 
I  had  just  been  talking  to  one  of  the  doctors  about  him,  when 
I  came  out  and  saw  you  with  him.  He  was  shot  in  the  neck 
at  Cantigny,  where  he  lost  his  arm.  The  wound  healed,  but 
his  memory  is  affected;  some  nerve  cut,  I  suppose,  that  con- 
nects with  that  part  of  his  brain.  This  psychopath,  Phillips, 
takes  a  great  interest  in  him  and  keeps  him  here  to  observe  him. 
He's  writing  a  book  about  him.  He  says  the  fellow  has 
forgotten  almost  everything  about  his  life  before  he  came  to 
France.  The  queer  thing  is,  it's  his  recollection  of  women 
that  is  most  affected.  He  can  remember  his  father,  but  not 
his  mother;  doesn't  know  if  he  has  sisters  or  not, —  can  re- 
member seeing  girls  about  the  house,  but  thinks  they  may 
have  been  cousins.  His  photographs  and  belongings  were  lost 
when  he  was  hurt,  all  except  a  bunch  of  letters  he  had  in  his 
pocket.  They  are  from  a  girl  he's  engaged  to,  and  he  declares 
he  can't  remember  her  at  all;  doesn't  know  what  she  looks 
like  or  anything  about  her,  and  can't  remember  getting  en- 


338  One  of  Ours 


gaged.  The  doctor  has  the  letters.  They  seem  to  be  from  a 
nice  girl  in  his  own  town  who  is  very  ambitious  for  him  to 
make  the  most  of  himself.  He  deserted  soon  after  he  was 
sent  to  this  hospital,  ran  away.  He  was  found  on  a  farm 
out  in  the  country  here,  where  the  sons  had  been  killed 
and  the  people  had  sort  of  adopted  him.  He'd  quit  his  uni- 
form and  was  wearing  the  clothes  of  one  of  the  dead  sons. 
He'd  probably  have  got  away  with  it,  if  he  hadn't  had  that 
wry  neck.  Some  one  saw  him  in  the  fields  and  recognized 
him  and  reported  him.  I  guess  nobody  cared  much  but  this 
psychopathic  doctor;  he  wanted  to  get  his  pet  patient  back. 
They  call  him  'the  lost  American'  here." 

"He  seems  to  be  doing  some  sort  of  clerical  work,"  Claude 
observed  discreetly. 

"Yes,  they  say  he's  very  well  educated.     He  remembers  the 
books  he  has  read  better  than  his  own  life.     He  can't  recall 
what  his  home  town  looks  like,  or  his  home.     And  the  women 
are  clear  wiped  out,  even  the  girl  he  was  going  to  marry." 
Claude  smiled.     "Maybe  he's  fortunate  in  that." 
The   Doctor  turned   to   him  affectionately,.     "Now   Claude, 
don't   begin   to   talk   like   that  the   minute  you   land   in   this 
country." 

Claude  walked  on  past  the  church  of  St.  Jacques.  Last 
night  already  seemed  like  a  dream,  but  it  haunted  him.  He 
wished  he  could  do  something  to  help  that  boy;  help  him  get 
away  from  the  doctor  who  was  writing  a  book  about  him, 
and  the  girl  who  wanted  him  to  make  the  most  of  himself; 
get  away  and  be  lost  altogether  in  what  he  had  been  lucky 
enough  to  find.  All  day,  as  Claude  came  and  went,  he  looked 
among  the  crowds  for  that  young  face,  so  compassionate  and 
tender. 


IV 

DEEPER  and  deeper  into  flowery  France!  That  was 
the  sentence  Claude  kept  saying  over  to  himself  to  the 
jolt  of  the  wheels,  as  the  long  troop  train  werit  south- 
ward, on  the  second  day  after  he  and  his  company  had  left  the 
port  of  debarkation.  Fields  of  wheat,  fields  of  oats,  fields  of 
rye ;  all  the  low  hills  and  rolling  uplands  clad  with  harvest.  And 
everywhere,  in  the  grass,  in  the  yellowing  grain,  along  the 
road-bed,  the  poppies  spilling  and  streaming.  On  the  second 
day  the  boys  were  still  calling  to  each  other  about  the  poppies ; 
nothing  else  had  so  entirely  surpassed  their  expectations. 
They  had  supposed  that  poppies  grew  only  on  battle  fields,  or 
in  the  brains  of  war  correspondents.  Nobody  knew  what 
the  cornflowers  were,  except  Willy  Katz,  an  Austrian  boy 
from  the  Omaha  packing-houses,  and  he  knew  only  an  objec- 
tionable name  for  them,  so  he  offered  no  information.  For 
a  long  time  they  thought  the  red  clover  blossoms  were  wild 
flowers, —  they  were  as  big  as  wild  roses.  When  they  passed 
the  first  alfalfa  field,  the  whole  train  rang  with  laughter; 
alfalfa  was  one  thing,  they  believed,  that  had  never  been  heard 
of  outside  their  own  prairie  states. 

All  the  way  down,  Company  B  had  been  finding  the  old 
things  instead  of  the  new, —  or,  to  their  way  of  thinking,  the 
new  things  instead  of  the  old.  The  thatched  roofs  they  had 
so  counted  upon  seeing  were  few  and  far  between.  But 
American  binders,  of  well-known  makes,  stood  where  the 
fields  were  beginning  to  ripen, —  and  they  were  being  oiled 

339 


340  One  of  Ours 


and  put  in  order,  not  by  "peasants,"  but  by  wise-looking 
old  farmers  who  seemed  to  know  their  business.  Pear  trees, 
trained  like  vines  against  the  wall,  did  not  astonish  them  half 
so  much  as  the  sight  of  the  familiar  cottonwood,  growing 
everywhere.  Claude  thought  he  had  never  before  realized  how 
beautiful  this  tree  could  be.  In  verdant  little  valleys,  along 
the  clear  rivers,  the  cottonwoods  waved  and  rustled;  and  on 
the  little  islands,  of  which  there  were  so  many  in  these  rivers, 
they  stood  in  pointed  masses,  seemed  to  grip  deep  into  the 
soil  and  to  rest  easy,  as  if  they  had  been  there  for  ever  and 
would  be  there  for  ever  more.  At  home,  all  about  Frankfort, 
the  farmers  were  cutting  down  their  cottonwoods  because  they 
were  "common,"  planting  maples  and  ash  trees  to  struggle 
along  in  their  stead.  Never  mind;  the  cottonwoods  were 
good  enough  for  France,  and  they  were  good  enough  for 
him!  He  felt  they  were  a  real  bond  between  him  and  this 
people. 

When  B  Company  had  first  got  their  orders  to  go  into  a 
training  camp  in  north-central  France,  all  the  men  were  dis- 
appointed. Troops  much  rawer  than  they  were  being  rushed 
to  the  front,  so  why  fool  around  any  longer?  But  now  they 
were  reconciled  to  the  delay.  There  seemed  to  be  a  good 
deal  of  France  that  wasn't  the  war,  and  they  wouldn't  mind 
travelling  about  a  little  in  a  country  like  this.  Was  the  harvest 
always  a  month  later  than  at  home,  as  it  seemed  to  be  this 
year?  Why  did  the  farmers  have  rows  of  trees  growing 
along  the  edges  of  every  field  —  didn't  they  take  the  strength 
out  of  the  soil?  What  did  the  farmers  mean  by  raising 
patches  of  mustard  right  along  beside  other  crops?  Didn't 
they  know  that  mustard  got  into  wheat  fields  and  strangled  the 
grain  ? 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     341 

The  second  night  the  boys  were  to  spend  in  Rouen,  and  they 
would  have  the  following  day  to  look  about.  Everybody 
knew  what  had  happened  at  Rouen  —  if  any  one  didn't,  his 
neighbours  were  only  too  eager  to  inform  him!  It  had  hap- 
pened in  the  market-place,  and  the  market-place  was  what  they 
were  going  to  find. 

Tomorrow,  when  it  came,  proved  to  be  black  and  cold,  a  day 
of  pouring  rain.  As  they  filed  through  the  narrow,  crowded 
streets,  that  harsh  Norman  city  presented  no  very  cheering 
aspect.  They  were  glad,  at  last,  to  find  the  waterside,  to  go 
out  on  the  bridge  and  breathe  the  air  in  the  great  open  space 
over  the  river,  away  from  the  clatter  of  cart-wheels  and 
the  hard  voices  and  crafty  faces  of  these  townspeople,  who 
seemed  rough  and  unfriendly.  From  the  bridge  they  looked 
up  at  the  white  chalk  hills,  the  tops  a  blur  of  intense  green 
under  the  low,  lead-coloured  sky.  They  watched  the  fleets  of 
broad,  deep-set  river  barges,  coming  and  going  under  their 
feet,  with  tilted  smoke-stacks.  Only  a  little  way  up  that  river 
was  Paris,  the  place  where  every  doughboy  meant  to  go;  and 
as  they  leaned  on  the  rail  and  looked  down  at  the  slow-flowing 
water,  each  one  had  in  his  mind  a  confused  picture  of  what  it 
would  be  like.  The  Seine,  they  felt  sure,  must  be  very  much 
wider  there,  and  it  was  spanned  by  many  bridges,  all  longer  than 
the  bridge  over  the  Missouri  at  Omaha.  There  would  be 
spires  and  golden  domes  past  counting,  all  the  buildings  higher 
than  anything  in  Chicago,  and  brilliant  —  dazzlingly  brilliant, 
nothing  grey  and  shabby  about  it  like  this  old  Rouen.  They 
attributed  to  the  city  of  their  desire  incalculable  immensity, 
bewildering  vastness,  Babylonian  hugeness  and  heaviness — the 
only  attributes  they  had  been  taught  to  admire. 

Late  in  the  morning  Claude  found  himself  alone  before  the 


342  One  of  Ours 


Church  of  St.  Ouen.  He  was  hunting  for  the  Cathedral, 
and  this  looked  as  if  it  might  be  the  right  place.  He  shook 
the  water  from  his  raincoat  and  entered,  removing  his  hat  at 
the  door.  The  day,  so  dark  without,  was  darker  still  within; 
.  .  .  far  away,  a  few  scattered  candles,  still  little  points  of 
light  .  .  .  just  before  him,  in  the  grey  twilight,  slender  white 
columns  in  long  rows,  like  the  stems  of  silver  poplars. 

The  entrance  to  the  nave  was  closed  by  a  cord,  so  he  walked 
up  the  aisle  on  the  right,  treading  softly,  passing  chapels  where 
solitary  women  knelt  in  the  light  of  a  few  tapers.  Except 
for  them,  the  church  was  empty  .  .  .  empty.  His  own  breath- 
ing was  audible  in  this  silence.  He  moved  with  caution  lest 
he  should  wake  an  echo. 

When  he  reached  the  choir  he  turned,  and  saw,  far  behind 
him,  the  rose  window,  with  its  purple  heart.  As  he  stood 
staring,  hat  in  hand,  as  still  as  the  stone  figures  in  the 
chapels,  a  great  bell,  up  aloft,  began  to  strike  the  hour  in 
its  deep,  melodious  throat;  eleven  beats,  measured  and  far 
apart,  as  rich  as  the  colours  in  the  window,  then  silence  .  .  . 
only  in  his  memory  the  throbbing  of  an  undreamed-of  quality  of 
sound.  The  revelations  of  the  glass  and  the  bell  had  come 
almost  simultaneously,  as  if  one  produced  the  other;  and  both 
were  superlatives  toward  which  his  mind  had  always  been 
groping, —  or  so  it  seemed  to  him  then. 

In  front  of  the  choir  the  nave  was  open,  with  no  rope  to 
shut  it  off.  Several  straw  chairs  were  huddled  on  a  flag  of 
the  stone  floor.  After  some  hesitation  he  took  one,  turned  it 
round,  and  sat  down  facing  the  window.  If  some  one  should 
come  up  to  him  and  say  anything,  anything  at  all,  he  would 
rise  and  say,  "Pardon,  Monsieur;  je  ne  sais  pas  c'est  defendu." 
He  repeated  this  to  himself  to  be  quite  sure  he  had  it  ready. 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     343 

On  the  train,  coming  down,  he  had  talked  to  the  boys  about  the 
bad  reputation  Americans  had  acquired  for  slouching  all  over 
the  place  and  butting  in  on  things,  and  had  urged  them  to  tread 
lightlyr  "But  Lieutenant,"  the  kid  from  Pleasantville  had  piped 
up,  "isn't  this  whole  Expedition  a  butt-in?  After  all,  it  ain't 
our  war."  -Claude  laughed,  but  he  told  him  he  meant  to  make 
an  example  of  the  fellow  who  went  to  rough-housing. 

He  was  well  satisfied  that  he  hadn't  his  restless  companions 
on  his  mind  now.  He  could  sit  here  quietly  until  noon,  and  hear 
the  bell  strike  again.  In  the  meantime,  he  must  try  to  think : 
This  was,  of  course,  Gothic  architecture;  he  had  read  more  or 
less  about  that,  and  ought  to  be  able  to  remember  something. 
Gothic  .  .  .  that  was  a  mere  word ;  to  him  it  suggested  some- 
thing very  peaked  and  pointed, —  sharp  arches,  steep  roofs.  It 
had  nothing  to  do  with  these  slim  white  columns  that  rose  so 
straight  and  far, —  or  with  the  window,  burning  up  there  in 
its  vault  of  gloom.  .  .  . 

While  he  was  vainly  trying  to  think  about  architecture, 
some  recollection  of  old  astronomy  lessons  brushed  across 
his  brain, —  something  about  stars  whose  light  travels  through 
space  for  hundreds  of  years  before  it  reaches  the  earth  and  the 
human  eye.  The  purple  and  crimson  and  peacock-green  of 
this  window  had  been  shining  quite  as  long  as  that  before  it 
got  to  him.  .  .  .  He  felt  distinctly  that  it  went  through  him 
and  farther  still  ...  as  if  his  mother  were  looking  over  his 
shoulder.  He  sat  solemnly  through  the  hour  until  twelve,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  his  conical  hat  swinging  between  them  in 
his  hand,  looking  up  through  the  twilight  with  candid,  thought- 
ful eyes. 

When  Claude  joined  his  company  at  the  station,  they  had 
the  laugh  on  him.  They  had  found  the  Cathedral, —  and  a 


344  One  °f  Ours 


statue  of  Richard  the  Lion-hearted,  over  the  spot  where  the 
lion-heart  itself  was  buried;  "the  identical  organ/'  fat  Ser- 
geant Hicks  assured  him.  But  they  were  all  glad  to  leave 
Rouen. 


B  COMPANY  reached  the  training  camp  at  S thirty- 
six  men  short :  twenty-five  they  had  buried  on  the  voy- 
age over,  and  eleven  sick  were  left  at  the  base  hospital. 
The  company  was  to  be  attached  to  a  battalion  which  had  already 
seen  service,  commanded  by  Lieutenant  Colonel  Scott.  Arriv- 
ing early  in  the  morning,  the  officers  reported  at  once  to 
Headquarters.  Captain  Maxey  must  have  suffered  a  shock 
when  the  Colonel  rose  from  his  desk  to  acknowledge  his  salute, 
then  shook  hands  with  them  all  around  and  asked  them  about 
their  journey.  The  Colonel  was  not  a  very  martial  figure ;  short, 
fat,  with  slouching  shoulders,  and  a  lumpy  back  like  a  sack  of 
potatoes.  Though  he  wasn't  much  over  forty,  he  was  bald,  and 
his  collar  would  easily  slip  over  his  head  without  being  un- 
buttoned. His  little  twinkling  eyes  and  good-humoured  face 
were  without  a  particle  of  arrogance  or  official  dignity. 

Years  ago,  when  General  Pershing,  then  a  handsome  young 
Lieutenant  with  a  slender  waist  and  yellow  moustaches,  was 
stationed  as  Commandant  at  the  University  of  Nebraska, 
Walter  Scott  was  an  officer  in  a  company  of  cadets  the  Lieu- 
tenant took  about  to  military  tournaments.  The  Pershing 
Rifles,  they  were  called,  and  they  won  prizes  wherever  they 
went.  After  his  graduation,  Scott  settled  down  to  running  a 
hardware  business  in  a  thriving  Nebraska  town,  and  sold  gas 
ranges  and  garden  hose  for  twenty  years.  About  the  time 
Pershing  was  sent  to  the  Mexican  border,  Scott  began  to  think 
there  might  eventually  be  something  in  the  wind,  and  that  he 

345 


346  One  of  Ours 


would  better  get  into  training.  He  went  down  to  Texas  with 
the  National  Guard.  He  had  come  to  France  with  the  First 
Division,  and  had  won  his  promotions  by  solid,  soldierly 
qualities. 

"I  see  you're  an  officer  short,  Captain  Maxey,"  the  Colonel 
remarked  at  their  conference.  "I  think  I've  got  a  man  here 
to  take  his  place.  Lieutenant  Gerhardt  is  a  New  York  man, 
came  over  in  the  band  and  got  transferred  to  infantry.  He 
has  lately  been  given  a  commission  for  good  service.  He's 
had  some  experience  and  is  a  capable  fellow."  The  Colonel 
sent  his  orderly  out  to  bring  in  a  young  man  whom  he  intro- 
duced to  the  officers  as  Lieutenant  David  Gerhardt. 

Claude  had  been  ashamed  of  Tod  Fanning,  who  was  always 
showing  himself  a  sap-head,  and  who  would  never  have  got 
a  commission  if  his  uncle  hadn't  been  a  Congressman.  But 
the  moment  he  met  Lieutenant  Gerhardt's  eye,  something  like 
jealously  flamed  up  in  him.  He  felt  in  a  flash  that  he  suffered 
by  comparison  with  the  new  officer;  that  he  must  be  on  his 
guard  and  must  not  let  himself  be  patronized. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  Colonel's  office  together,  Gerhardt 
asked  him  whether  he  had  got  his  billet.  Claude  replied  that 
after  the  men  were  in  their  quarters,  he  would  look  out  for 
something  for  himself. 

The  young  man  smiled.  "I'm  afraid  you  may  have  dif- 
ficulty. The  people  about  here  have  been  overworked,  keep- 
ing soldiers,  and  they  are  not  willing  as  they  once  were.  I'm 
with  a  nice  old  couple  over  in  the  village.  I'm  almost  sure  I 
can  get  you  in  there.  If  you'll  come  along,  we'll  speak  to 
them,  before  some  one  else  is  put  off  on  them." 

Claude  didn't  want  to  go,  didn't  want  to  accept  favours,— 
nevertheless  he  went.  They  walked  together  along  a  dusty 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     347 

road  that  ran  between  half -ripe  wheatfields,  bordered  with 
poplar  trees.  The  wild  morning-glories  and  Queen  Anne's 
lace  that  grew  by  the  road-side  were  still  shining  with  dew.  A 
fresh  breeze  stirred  the  bearded  grain,  parting  it  in  furrows 
and  fanning  out  streaks  of  crimson  poppies.  The  new  of- 
ficer was  not  intrusive,  certainly.  He  walked  along,  whistling 
softly  to  himself,  seeming  quite  lost  in  the  freshness  of  the 
morning,  or  in  his  own  thoughts.  There  had  been  nothing 
patronizing  in  his  manner  so  far,  and  Claude  began  to  wonder 
why  he  felt  ill  at  ease  with  him.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he 
did  not  look  like  the  rest  of  them.  Though  he  was  young, 
he  did  not  look  boyish.  He  seemed  experienced;  a  finished 
product,  rather  than  something  on  the  way.  He  was  hand- 
some, and  his  face,  like  his  manner  and  his  walk,  had  some- 
thing distinguished  about  it.  A  broad  white  forehead  under 
reddish  brown  hair,  hazel  eyes  with  no  uncertainty  in  their 
look,  an  aquiline  nose,  finely  cut, —  a  sensitive,  scornful  mouth, 
which  somehow  did  not  detract  from  the  kindly,  though 
slightly  reserved,  expression  of  his  face. 

Lieutenant  Gerhardt  must  have  been  in  this  neighbourhood  for 
some  time;  he  seemed  to  know  the  people.  On  the  road  they 
passed  several  villagers ;  a  rough-looking  girl  taking  a  cow  out 
to  graze,  an  old  man  with  a  basket  on  his  arm,  the  postman 
on  his  bicycle; — they  all  spoke  to  Claude's  companion  as  if 
they  knew  him  well. 

"What  are  these  blue  flowers  that  grow  about  everywhere?" 
Claude  asked  suddenly,  pointing  to  a  clump  with  his  foot. 

"Cornflowers,"  said  the  other.  "The  Germans  call  them 
Kaiser-blumen." 

They  were  approaching  the  village,  which  lay  on  the  edge 
of  a  wood, —  a  wood  so  large  one  could  not  see  the  end  of  it; 


348  One  of  Ours 


it  met  the  horizon  with  a  ridge  of  pines.  The  village  was 
but  a  single  street.  On  either  side  ran  clay-coloured  walls, 
with  painted  wooden  doors  here  and  there,  and  green  shutters. 
Claude's  guide  opened  one  of  these  gates,  and  they  walked 
into  a  little  sanded  garden ;  the  house  was  built  round  it  on 
three  sides.  Under  a  cherry  tree  sat  a  woman  in  a  black  dress, 
sewing,  a  work  table  beside  her. 

She  was  fifty,  perhaps,  but  though  her  hair  was  grey  she 
had  a  look  of  youthf ulness ;  thin  cheeks,  delicately  flushed 
with  pink,  and  quiet,  smiling,  intelligent  eyes.  Claude  thought 
she  looked  like  a  New  England  woman, —  like  the  photographs 
of  his  mother's  cousins  and  schoolmates.  Lieutenant  Ger- 
hardt  introduced  him  to  Madame  Joubert.  He  was  quite  dis- 
heartened by  the  colloquy  that  followed.  Clearly  his  new 
fellow  officer  spoke  Madame  Joubert's  perplexing  language  as 
readily  as  she  herself  did,  and  he  felt  irritated  and  grudging 
as  he  listened.  He  had  been  hoping  that,  wherever  he  stayed, 
he  could  learn  to  talk  to  the  people  a  little;  but  with  this  ac- 
complished young  man  about,  he  would  never  have  the  courage 
to  try.  He  could  see  that  Mme.  Joubert  liked  Gerhardt,  liked 
him  very  much ;  and  all  this,  for  some  reason,  discouraged 
him. 

Gerhardt  turned  to  Claude,  speaking  in  a  way  which  in- 
cluded Madame  Joubert  in  the  conversation,  though  she  could 
not  understand  it:  "Madame  Joubert  will  let  you  come,  al- 
though she  has  done  her  part  and  really  doesn't  have  to  take 
any  one  else  in.  But  you  will  be  so  well  off  here  that  I'm  glad 
she  consents.  You  will  have  to  share  my  room,  but  there  are 
two  beds.  She  will  show  you." 

Gerhardt  went  out  of  the  gate  and  left  him  alone  with  his 
hostess.  Her  mind  seemed  to  read  his  thoughts.  When  he 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     349 

uttered  a  word,  or  any  sound  that  resembled  one,  she  quickly 
and  smoothly  made  a  sentence  of  it,  as  if  she  were  quite  ac- 
customed to  talking  in  this  way  and  expected  only  monosyllables 
from  strangers.  She  was  kind,  even  a  little  playful  with  him ; 
but  he  felt  it  was  all  good  manners,  and  that  underneath  she  was 
not  thinking  of  him  at  all.  When  he  was  alone  in  the  tile-floored 
sleeping  room  upstairs,  unrolling  his  blankets  and  arranging 
his  shaving  things,  he  looked  out  of  the  window  and  watched 
her  where  she  sat  sewing  under  the  cherry  tree.  She  had  a 
very  sad  face,  he  thought;  it  wasn't  grief,  nothing  sharp  and 
definite  like  sorrow.  It  was  an  old,  quiet,  impersonal  sadness, 
—  sweet  in  its  expression,  like  the  sadness  of  music. 

As  he  came  out  of  the  house  to  start  back  to  the  barracks, 
he  bowed  to  her  and  tried  to  say,  "Au  revoir,  Madame.  Jusq' 
an  ce  soir"  He  stopped  near  the  kitchen  door  to  look  at  a 
many-branched  rose  vine  that  ran  all  over  the  wall,  full  of 
cream-coloured,  pink-tipped  roses,  just  a  shade  stronger  in 
colour  than  the  clay  wall  behind  them.  Madame  Joubert  came 
over  and  stood  beside  him,  looking  at  him  and  at  the  rosier. 
"Oui,  c'est  joli,  riest-ce  pas?''  She  took  the  scissors  that  hung 
by  a  ribbon  from  her  belt,  cut  one  of  the  flowers  and  stuck  it 
in  his  buttonhole.  "Voila"  She  made  a  little  flourish  with 
her  thin  hand. 

Stepping  into  the  street,  he  turned  to  shut  the  wooden  door 
after  him,  and  heard  a  soft  stir  in  the  dark  tool-house  at  his 
elbow.  From  among  the  rakes  and  spades  a  child's  frightened 
face  was  staring  out  at  him.  She  was  sitting  on  the  ground 
with  her  lap  full  of  baby  kittens.  He  caught  but  a  glimpse  of 
her  dull,  pale  face. 


VI 

THE  next  morning  Claude  awoke  with  such  a  sense  of 
physical  well-being  as  he  had  not  had  for  a  long  time. 
The  sun  was  shining  brightly  on  the  white  plaster 
walls  and  on  the  red  tiles  of  the  floor.  Green  jalousies,  half- 
drawn,  shaded  the  upper  part  of  the  two  windows.  Through 
their  slats,  he  could  see  the  forking  branches  of  an  old  locust 
tree  that  grew  by  the  gate.  A  flock  of  pigeons  flew  over  it, 
dipping  and  mounting  with  a  sharp  twinkle  of  silver  wings.  It 
was  good  to  lie  again  in  a  house  that  was  cared  for  by  women. 
He  must  have  felt  that  even  in  his  sleep,  for  when  he  opened  his 
eyes  he  was  thinking  about  Mahailey  and  breakfast  and  summer 
mornings  on  the  farm.  The  early  stillness  was  sweet,  and  the 
feeling  of  dry,  clean  linen  against  his  body.  There  was  a  smell 
of  lavender  about  his  warm  pillow.  He  lay  still  for  fear  of 
waking  Lieutenant  Gerhardt.  This  was  the  sort  of  peace  one 
wanted  to  enjoy  alone.  When  he  rose  cautiously  on  his  elbow 
and  looked  at  the  other  bed,  it  was  empty.  His  companion  must 
have  dressed  and  slipped  out  when  day  first  broke.  Somebody 
else  who  liked  to  enjoy  things  alone;  that  looked  hopeful.  But 
now  thatx  he  had  the  place  to  himself,  he  decided  to  get  up. 
While  he  was  dressing  he  could  see  old  M.  Joubert  down 
in  the  garden,  watering  the  plants  and  vines,  raking  the  sand 
fresh  and  smooth,  clipping  off  dead  leaves  and  withered 
flowers  and  throwing  them  into  a  wheelbarrow.  These  people 
had  lost  both  their  sons  in  the  war,  he  had  been  told,  and  now 
they  were  taking  care  of  the  property  for  their  grandchildren, 

350 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     351 

—  two  daughters  of  the  elder  son.  Claude  saw  Gerhardt  come 
into  the  garden,  and  sit  down  at  the  table  under  the  trees,  where 
they  had  their  dinner  last  night.  He  hurried  down  to  join 
him.  Gerhardt  made  room  for  him  on  the  bench. 

"Do  you  always  sleep  like  that?  It's  an  accomplishment. 
I  made  enough  noise  when  I  dressed, —  kept  dropping  things, 
but  it  never  reached  you." 

Madame  Joubert  came  out  of  the  kitchen  in  a  purple 
flowered  morning  gown,  her  hair  in  curl-papers  under  a  lace 
cap.  She  brought  the  coffee  herself,  and  they  sat  down  at  the 
unpainted  table  without  a  cloth,  and  drank  it  out  of  big  crock- 
ery bowls.  They  had  fresh  milk  with  it, —  the  first  Claude 
had  tasted  in  a  long  while,  and  sugar  which  Gerhardt  pro- 
duced from  his  pocket.  The  old  cook  had  her  coffee  sitting 
in  the  kitchen  door,  and  on  the  step,  at  her  feet,  sat  the  strange, 
pale  little  girl. 

Madame  Joubert  amiably  addressed  herself  to  Claude;  she 
knew  that  Americans  were  accustomed  to  a  different  sort  of 
morning  repast,  and  if  he  wished  to  bring  bacon  from  the  camp, 
she  would  gladly  cook  it  for  him.  She  had  even  made  pan- 
cakes for  officers  who  stayed  there  before.  She  seemed 
pleased,  however,  to  learn  that  Claude  had  had  enough  of  these 
things  for  awhile.  She  called  David  by  his  first  name,  pro- 
nouncing it  the  French  way,  and  when  Claude  said  he  hoped 
she  would  do  as  much  for  him,  she  said,  Oh,  yes,  th?t  his  was 
a  very  good  French  name,  "mais  un  pen,  un  peu  .  .  .  roman- 
esquc,"  at  which  he  blushed,  not  quite  knowing  whether  she 
were  making  fun  of  him  or  not. 

"It  is  rather  so  in  English,  isn't  it  ?"  David  asked. 

"Well,  it's  a  sissy  name,  if  you  mean  that." 

"Yes,  it  is,  a  little,"  David  admitted  candidly. 


352  One  of  Ours 


The  day's  work  on  the  parade  ground  was  hard,  and  Captain 
Maxey's  men  were  soft,  felt  the  heat, —  didn't  size  up  well 
with  the  Kansas  boys  who  had  been  hardened  by  service.  The 
Colonel  wasn't  pleased  with  B  Company  and  detailed  them  to 
build  new  barracks  and  extend  the  sanitation  system.  Claude 
got  out  and  worked  with  the  men.  Gerhardt  followed  his 
example,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he  had  never  handled 
lumber  of  tin-roofing  before.  A  kind  of  rivalry  seemed  to  have 
sprung  up  between  him  and  Claude,  neither  of  them  knew  why. 

Claude  could  see  that  the  sergeants  and  corporals  were  a 
little  uncertain  about  Gerhardt.  His  laconic  speech,  never 
embroidered  by  the  picturesque  slang  they  relished,  his 
gravity,  and  his  rare,  incredulous  smile,  alike  puzzled  them. 
Was  the  new  officer  a  dude?  Sergeant  Hicks  asked  of  his 
chum,  Dell  Able.  No,  he  wasn't  a  dude.  Was  he  a  swell- 
head  ?  No,  not  at  all ;  but  he  wasn't  a  good  mixer.  He  was 
"an  Easterner";  what  more  he  was  would  develop  later. 
Claude  sensed  something  unusual  about  him.  He  suspected 
that  Gerhardt  knew  a  good  many  things  as  well  as  he  knew 
French,  and  that  he  tried  to  conceal  it,  as  people  sometimes  do 
when  they  feel  they  are  not  among  their  equals ;  this  idea  net- 
tled him.  It  was  Claude  who  seized  the  opportunity  to  be 
patronizing,  when  Gerhardt  betrayed  that  he  was  utterly  un- 
able to  select  lumber  by  given  measurements. 

The  next  afternoon,  work  on  the  new  barracks  was  called 
off  because  of  rain.  Sergeant  Hicks  set  about  getting  up  a 
boxing  match,  but  when  he  went  to  invite  the  lieutenants,  they 
had  both  disappeared.  Claude  was  tramping  toward  the 
village,  determined  to  get  into  the  big  wood  that  had  tempted 
him  ever  since  his  arrival. 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     353 

The  highroad  became  the  village  street,  and  then,  at  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  became  a  country  road  again.  A  little  farther 
on,  where  the  shade  grew  denser,  it  split  up  into  three  wagon 
trails,  two  of  them  faint  and  little  used.  One  of  these  Claude 
followed.  The  rain  had  dwindled  to  a  steady  patter,  but  the 
tall  brakes  growing  up  in  the  path  splashed  him  to  the  middle, 
and  his  feet  sank  in  spongy,  mossy  earth.  The  light  about  him, 
the  very  air,  was  green.  The  trunks  of  the  trees  were  over- 
grown with  a  soft  green  moss,  like  mould.  He  was  wonder- 
ing whether  this  forest  was  not  always  a  damp,  gloomy  place, 
when  suddenly  the  sun  broke  through  and  shattered  the  whole 
wood  with  gold.  He  had  never  seen  anything  like  the  quiver- 
ing emerald  of  the  moss,  the  silky  green  of  the  dripping  beech- 
tops.  Everything  woke  up;  rabbits  ran  across  the  path,  birds 
began  to  sing,  and  all  at  once  the  brakes  were  full  of  whirring 
insects. 

The  winding  path  turned  again,  and  came  out  abruptly  on  a 
hillside,  above  an  open  glade  piled  with  grey  boulders.  On  the 
opposite  rise  of  ground  stood  a  grove  of  pines,  with  bare,  red 
stems.  The  light,  around  and  under  them,  was  red  like  a  rosy 
sunset.  Nearly  all  the  stems  divided  about  half-way  up  into 
two  great  arms,  which  came  together  again  at  the  top,  like  the 
pictures  of  old  Grecian  lyres. 

Down  in  the  grassy  glade,  among  the  piles  of  flint  boulders, 
little  white  birches  shook  out  their  shining  leaves  in  the  lightly 
moving  air.  All  about  the  rocks  were  patches  of  purple 
heath;  it  ran  up  into  the  crevices  between  them  like  fire.  On 
one  of  these  bald  rocks  sat  Lieutenant  Gerhardt,  hatless,  in  an 
attitude  of  fatigue  or  of  deep  dejection,  his  hands  clasped  about 
his  knees,  his  bronze  hair  ruddy  in  the  sun.  After  watching 


354  One  °f  Ours 


him  for  a  few  minutes,  Claude  descended  the  slope,  swishing 
the  tall  ferns. 

"Will  I  be  in  the  way?"  he  asked  as  he  stopped  at  the  foot 
of  the  rocks. 

"Oh,  no !"  said  the  other,  moving  a  little  and  unclasping  his 
hands. 

Claude  sat  down  on  a  boulder.  "Is  this  heather  ?"  he  asked. 
"I  thought  I  recognized  it,  from  'Kidnapped/  This  part  of 
the  world  is  not  as  new  to  you  as  it  is  to  me." 

"No.  I  lived  in  Paris  for  several  years  when  I  was  a 
student." 

"What  were  you  studying?" 

"The  violin." 

"You  are  a  musician?"     Claude  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"I  was,"  replied  the  other  with  a  disdainful  smile,  languidly 
stretching  out  his  legs  in  the  heather. 

"That  seems  too  bad,"  Claude  remarked  gravely. 

"What  does?" 

"Why,  to  take  fellows  with  a  special  talent.  There  are 
enough  of  us  who  haven't  any." 

Gerhardt  rolled  over  on  his  back  and  put  his  hands  under 
his  head.  "Oh,  this  affair  is  too  big  for  exceptions;  it's  uni- 
versal. If  you  happened  to  be  born  twenty-six  years  ago,  you 
couldn't  escape.  If  this  war  didn't  kill  you  in  one  way,  it 
would  in  another."  He  told  Claude  he  had  trained  at  Camp 
Dix,  and  had  come  over  eight  months  ago  in  a  regimental  band, 
but  he  hated  the  work  he  had  to  do  and  got  transferred  to  the 
infantry. 

When  they  retraced  their  steps,  the  wood  was  full  of  green 
twilight.  Their  relations  had  changed  somewhat  during  the 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     355 

last  half  hour,  and  they  strolled  in  confidential  silence  up  the 
home-like  street  to  the  door  of  their  own  garden. 

Since  the  rain  was  over,  Madame  Joubert  had  laid  the  cloth 
on  the  plank  table  under  the  cherry  tree,  as  on  the  previous 
evenings.  Monsieur  was  bringing  the  chairs,  and  the  little  girl 
was  carrying  out  a  pile  of  heavy  plates.  She  rested  them 
against  her  stomach  and  leaned  back  as  she  walked,  to  balance 
them.  She  wore  shoes,  but  no  stockings,  and  her  faded  cotton 
dress  switched  about  her  brown  legs.  She  was  a  little  Belgian 
refugee  who  had  been  sent  there  with  her  mother.  The  mother 
was  dead  now,  and  the  child  would  not  even  go  to  visit  her 
grave.  She  could  not  be  coaxed  from  the  court-yard  into  the 
quiet  street.  If  the  neighbour  children  came  into  the  garden  on 
an  errand,  she  hid  herself.  She  would  have  no  playmates  but 
the  cat ;  and  now  she  had  the  kittens  in  the  tool  house. 

Dinner  was  very  cheerful  that  evening.  M.  Joubert  was 
pleased  that  the  storm  had  not  lasted  long  enough  to  hurt  the 
wheat.  The  garden  was  fresh  and  bright  after  the  rain.  The 
cherry  tree  shook  down  bright  drops  on  the  tablecloth  when  the 
breeze  stirred.  The  mother  cat  dozed  on  the  red  cushion  in 
Madame  Joubert's  sewing  chair,  and  the  pigeons  fluttered 
down  to  snap  up  earthworms  that  wriggled  in  the  wet  sand. 
The  shadow  of  the  house  fell  over  the  dinner-table,  but  the 
tree-tops  stood  up  in  full  sunlight,  and  the  yellow  sun  poured 
on  the  earth  wall  and  the  cream-coloured  roses.  Their  petals, 
ruffled  by  the  rain,  gave  out  a  wet,  spicy  smell. 

M.  Joubert  must  have  been  ten  years  older  than  his  wife. 
There  was  a  great  contentment  in  his  manner  and  a  pleasant 
sparkle  in  his  eye.  He  liked  the  young  officers.  Gerhardt 
had  been  there  more  than  two  weeks,  and  somewhat  relieved 


356  One  of  Ours 


the  stillness  that  had  settled  over  the  house  since  the  second 
son  died  in  hospital.  The  Jouberts  had  dropped  out  of  things. 
They  had  done  all  they  could  do,  given  all  they  had,  and  now 
they  had  nothing  to  look  forward  to, —  except  the  event  to  which 
all  France  looked  forward.  The  father  was  talking  to  Gerhardt 
about  the  great  sea-port  the  Americans  were  making  of 
Bordeaux ;  he  said  he  meant  to  go  there  after  the  war,  to  see  it 
all  for  himself. 

Madame  Joubert  was  pleased  to  hear  that  they  had  been  walk- 
ing in  the  wood.  And  was  the  heather  in  bloom  ?  She  wished 
they  had  brought  her  some.  Next  time  they  went,  perhaps. 
She  used  to  walk  there  often.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  come  nearer 
to  them,  Claude  thought,  when  she  spoke  of  it,  and  she  evidently 
cared  a  great  deal  more  about  what  was  blooming  in  the  wood 
than  about  what  the  Americans  were  doing  on  the  Garonne. 
He  wished  he  could  talk  to  her  as  Gerhardt  did.  He  admired 
the  way  she  roused  herself  and  tried  to  interest  them,  speaking 
her  difficult  language  with  such  spirit  and  precision.  It  was  a 
language  that  couldn't  be  mumbled ;  that  had  to  be  spoken  with 
energy  and  fire,  or  not  spoken  at  all.  Merely  speaking  that 
exacting  tongue  would  help  to  rally  a  broken  spirit,  he  thought. 

The  little  maid  who  served  them  moved  about  noiselessly. 
Her  dull  eyes  never  seemed  to  look;  yet  she  saw  when  it  was 
time  to  bring  the  heavy  soup  tureen,  and  when  it  was  time  to 
take  it  away.  Madame  Joubert  had  found  that  Claude  liked 
his  potatoes  with  his  meat  —  when  there  was  meat  —  and  not  in 
a  course  by  themselves.  She  had  each  time  to  tell  the  little  girl 
to  go  and  fetch  them.  This  the  child  did  with  manifest  reluc- 
tance,—  sullenly,  as  if  she  were  being  forced  to  do  something 
wrong.  She  was  a  very  strange  little  creature,  altogether.  As 
the  two  soldiers  left  the  table  and  started  for  the  camp,  Claude 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     357 

reached  down  into  the  tool  house  and  took  up  one  of  the  kittens, 
holding  it  out  in  the  light  to  see  it  blink  its  eyes.  The  little  girl, 
just  coming  out  of  the  kitchen,  uttered  a  shrill  scream,  a  really 
terrible  scream,  and  squatted  down,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.  Madame  Joubert  came  out  to  chide  her. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  that  child?"  Claude  asked  as  they 
hurried  out  of  the  gate.  "Do  you  suppose  she  was  hurt,  or 
abused  in  some  way  ?" 

"Terrorized.  She  often  screams  like  that  at  night.  Haven't 
you  heard  her  ?  They  have  to  go  and  wake  her,  to  stop  it.  She 
doesn't  speak  any  French;  only  Walloon.  And  she  can't  of 
won't  learn,  so  they  can't  tell  what  goes  on  in  her  poor  little 
head." 

In  the  two  weeks  of  intensive  training  that  followed,  Claude 
marvelled  at  Gerhardt's  spirit  and  endurance.  The  muscular 
strain  of  mimic  trench  operations  was  more  of  a  tax  on  him 
than  on  any  of  the  other  officers.  He  was  as  tall  as  Claude,  but 
he  weighed  only  a  hundred  and  forty-six  pounds,  and  he  had 
not  been  roughly  bred  like  most  of  the  others.  When  his  fellow 
officers  learned  that  he  was  a  violinist  by  profession,  that  he 
could  have  had  a  soft  job  as  interpreter  or  as  an  organizer  of 
camp  entertainments,  they  no  longer  resented  his  reserve  or  his 
occasional  superciliousness.  They  respected  a  man  who  could 
have  wriggled  out  and  didn't. 


VII 

ON  the  march  at  last;  through  a  brilliant  August  day 
Colonel  Scott's  battalion  was  streaming  along  one  of 
the  dusty,  well-worn  roads  east  of  the  Somme,  their 
railway  base  well  behind  them.  The  way  led  through  roll- 
ing country;  fields,  hills,  woods,  little  villages  shattered  but 
still  habitable,  where  the  people  came  out  to  watch  the  soldiers 
go  by. 

The  Americans  went  through  every  village  in  march  step, 
colours  flying,  the  band  playing,  "to  show  that  the  morale 
was  high,"  as  the  officers  said.  Claude  trudged  on  the  outside 
of  the  column, —  now  at  the  front  of  his  company,  now  at  the 
rear, —  wearing  a  stoical  countenance,  afraid  of  betraying  his 
satisfaction  in  the  men,  the  weather,  the  country. 

They  were  bound  for  the  big  show,  and  on  every  hand  were 
reassuring  signs:  long  lines  of  gaunt,  dead  trees,  charred  and 
torn;  big  holes  gashed  out  in  fields  and  hillsides,  already  half 
concealed  by  new  undergrowth;  winding  depressions  in  the 
earth,  bodies  of  wrecked  motor-trucks  and  automobiles  lying 
along  the  road,  and  everywhere  endless  straggling  lines  of 
rusty  barbed-wire,  that  seemed  to  have  been  put  there  by 
chance, —  with  no  purpose  at  all. 

"Begins  to  look  like  we're  getting  in,  Lieutenant,"  said 
Sergeant  Hicks,  smiling  behind  his  salute. 

Claude  nodded  and  passed  forward. 

"Well,  we  can't  arrive  any  too  soon  for  us,  boys  ?"  The  Ser- 
geant looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  they  grinned,  their  teeth 

358 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     359 

flashing  white  in  their  red,  perspiring  faces.  Claude  didn't 
wonder  that  everybody  along  the  route,  even  the  babies,  came 
out  to  see  them;  he  thought  they  were  the  finest  sight  in  the 
world.  This  was  the  first  day  they  had  worn  their  tin  hats; 
Gerhardt  had  shown  them  how  to  stuff  grass  and  leaves  inside 
to  keep  their  heads  cool.  When  they  fell  into  fours,  and 
the  band  struck  up  as  they  approached  a  town,  Bert  Fuller,  the 
boy  from  Pleasantville  on  the  Platte,  who  had  blubbered  on  the 
voyage  over,  was  guide  right,  and  whenever  Claude  passed  him 
his  face  seemed  to  say,  "You  won't  get  anything  on  me  in  a 
hurry,  Lieutenant!" 

They  made  camp  early  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  hill  covered  with 
half -burned  pines.  Claude  took  Bert  and  Dell  Able  and  Oscar 
the  Swede,  and  set  off  to  make  a  survey  and  report  the  terrain. 
Behind  the  hill,  under  the  burned  edge  of  the  wood,  they  found 
an  abandoned  farmhouse  and  what  seemed  to  be  a  clean  well. 
It  had  a  solid  stone  curb  about  it,  and  a  wooden  bucket  hanging 
by  a  rusty  wire.  When  the  boys  splashed  the  bucket  about,  the 
water  sent  up  a  pure,  cool  breath.  But  they  were  wise  boys, 
and  knew  where  dead  Prussians  most  loved  to  hide.  Even  the 
straw  in  the  stable  they  regarded  with  suspicion,  and  thought  it 
would  be  just  as  well  not  to  bed  anybody  there. 

Swinging  on  to  the  right  to  make  their  circuit,  they  got  into 
mud;  a  low  field  where  the  drain  ditches  had  been  neglected 
and  had  overflowed.  There  they  came  upon  a  pitiful  group  of 
humanity,  bemired.  A  woman,  ill  and  wretched  looking,  sat  on 
a  fallen  log  at  the  end  of  the  marsh,  a  baby  in  her  lap  and  three 
children  hanging  about  her.  She  was  far  gone  in  consumption ; 
one  had  only  to  listen  to  her  breathing  and  to  look  at  her  white, 
perspiring  face  to  feel  how  weak  she  was.  Draggled,  mud  to 
the  knees,  she  was  trying  to  nurse  her  baby,  half  hidden  under 


360  One  of  Ours 


an  old  black  shawl.  She  didn't  look  like  a  tramp  woman,  but 
like  one  who  had  once  been  able  to  take  proper  care  of  herself, 
and  she  was  still  young.  The  children  were  tired  and  discour- 
aged. One  little  boy  wore  a  clumsy  blue  jacket,  made  from  a 
French  army  coat.  The  other  wore  a  battered  American 
Stetson  that  came  down  over  his  ears.  He  carried,  in  his  two 
arms,  a  pink  celluloid  clock.  They  all  looked  up  and  waited 
for  the  soldiers  to  do  something. 

Claude  approached  the  woman,  and  touching  the  rim  of  his 
helmet,  began :  "B on  jour,  Madame.  Quest  que  cest?" 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  went  off  into  a  spasm  of  coughing, 
only  able  to  gasp,  "  'Toinette,  'Toinette !" 

'Toinette  stepped  quickly  forward.  She  was  about  eleven, 
and  seemed  to  be  the  captain  of  the  party.  A  bold,  hard  little 
face  with  a  long  chin,  straight  black  hair  tied  with  rags,  uneasy, 
crafty  eyes ;  she  looked  much  less  gentle  and  more  experienced 
than  her  mother.  She  began  to  explain,  and  she  was  very  clever 
at  making  herself  understood.  She  was  used  to  talking  to 
foreign  soldiers, —  spoke  slowly,  with  emphasis  and  ingenious 
gestures. 

She,  too,  had  been  reconnoitering.  She  had  discovered  the 
empty  farmhouse  and  was  trying  to  get  her  party  there  for  the 
night.  How  did  they  come  here?  Oh,  they  were  refugees. 
They  had  been  staying  with  people  thirty  kilometers  from  here. 
They  were  trying  to  get  back  to  their  own  village.  Her  mother 
was  very  sick,  presque  morte,  and  she  wanted  to  go  home  to 
die.  They  had  heard  people  were  still  living  there ;  an  old  aunt 
was  living  in  their  own  cellar, —  and  so  could  they  if  they  once 
got  there.  The  point  was,  and  she  made  it  over  and  over,  that 
her  mother  wished  to  die  chez  elle,  comprenez-vous?  They  had 


''Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     361 

no  papers,  and  the  French  soldiers  would  never  let  them  pass, 
but  now  that  the  Americans  were  here  they  hoped  to  get 
through ;  the  Americans  were  said  to  be  toujours  gentils. 

While  she  talked  in  her  shrill,  clicking  voice,  the  baby  began 
to  howl,  dissatisfied  with  its  nourishment.  The  little  girl 
shrugged.  "II  est  toujours  en  colere,"  she  muttered.  The 
woman  turned  it  around  with  difficulty  — '  it  seemed  a  big,  heavy 
baby,  but  white  and  sickly — and  gave  it  the  other  breast.  It 
began  sucking  her  noisily,  rooting  and  sputtering  as  if  it  were 
famished.  It  was  too  painful,  it  was  almost  indecent,  to  see 
this  exhausted  woman  trying  to  feed  her  baby.  Claude  beck- 
oned his  men  away  to  one  side,  and  taking  the  little  girl  by  the 
hand  drew  her  after  them. 

"II  faut  que  votre  mere  \  \  se  reposer,"  he  told  her,  with 
the  grave  caesural  pause  which  he  always  made  in  the  middle 
of  a  French  sentence.  She  understood  him.  No  distortion  of 
her  native  tongue  surprised  or  perplexed  her.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  being  addressed  in  all  persons,  numbers,  genders, 
tenses ;  by  Germans,  English,  Americans.  She  only  listened  to 
hear  whether  the  voice  was  kind,  and  with  men  in  this  uniform 
it  usually  was  kind. 

Had  they  anything  to  eat?  Vous  avez  quelque  chose  & 
man  g erf 

"Rien.     Rien  du  tout." 

Wasn't  her  mother  trop  malade  a  marcher f 

She  shrugged;  Monsieur  could  see  for  himself. 

And  her  father? 

He  was  dead ;  mort  a  la  Marne,  en  quatorze. 

"At  the  Marne?"  Claude  repeated,  glancing  in  perplexity  at 
the  nursing  baby. 


362  One  of  Ours 


Her  sharp  eyes  followed  his,  and  she  instantly  divined  his 
doubt.  "The  baby?"  she  said  quickly.  "Oh,  the  baby  is  not 
my  brother,  he  is  a  Boche." 

For  a  moment  Claude  did  not  understand.  She  repeated  her 
explanation  impatiently,  something  disdainful  and  sinister  in 
her  metallic  little  voice.  A  slow  blush  mounted  to  his  forehead. 

He  pushed  her  toward  her  mother,  "Attendez  la" 

"I  guess  we'll  have  to  get  them  over  to  that  farmhouse,"  he 
told  the  men.  He  repeated  what  he  had  got  of  the  child's  story. 
When  he  came  to  her  laconic  statement  about  the  baby,  they 
looked  at  each  other.  Bert  Fuller  was  afraid  he  might  cry 
again,  so  he  kept  muttering,  "By  God,  if  we'd  a-got  here  sooner, 
by  God  if  we  had !"  as  they  ran  back  along  the  ditch. 

Dell  and  Oscar  made  a  chair  of  their  crossed  hands  and  car- 
ried the  woman, —  she  was  no  great  weight.  Bert  picked  up  the 
little  boy  with  the  pink  clock;  "Come  along,  little  frog,  your 
legs  ain't  long  enough." 

Claude  walked  behind,  holding  the  screaming  baby  stiffly  in 
his  arms.  How  was  it  possible  for  a  baby  to  have  such  definite 
personality,  he  asked  himself,  and  how  was  it  possible  to  dislike 
a  baby  so  much  ?  He  hated  it  for  its  square,  tow-thatched  head 
and  bloodless  ears,  and  carried  it  with  loathing  ...  no  wonder 
it  cried!  When  it  got  nothing  by  screaming  and  stiffening, 
however,  it  suddenly  grew  quiet;  regarded  him  with  pale  blue 
eyes,  and  tried  to  make  itself  comfortable  against  his  khaki  coat. 
It  put  out  a  grimy  little  fist  and  took  hold  of  one  of  his  buttons. 
"Kamarad,  eh?"  he  muttered,  glaring  at  the  infant.  "Cut  it 
out !" 

Before  they  had  their  own  supper  that  night,  the  boys  car- 
ried hot  food  and  blankets  down  to  their  family. 


VIII 

FOUR  o'clock  ...  a  summer  dawn  ...  his  first  morn- 
ing in  the  trenches. 
Claude  had  just  been  along  the  line  to  see  that  the 
gun  teams  were  in  position.  This  hour,  when  the  light  was 
changing  was  a  favourite  time  for  attack.  He  had  come  in 
late  last  night,  and  had  everything  to  learn.  Mounting  the 
fire-step,  he  peeped  over  the  parapet  between  the  sandbags, 
into  the  low,  twisting  mist.  Just  then  he  could  see  nothing  but 
the  wire  entanglement,  with  birds  hopping  along  the  top  wire, 
singing  and  chirping  as  they  did  on  the  wire  fences  at  home. 
Clear  and  flute-like  they  sounded  in  the  heavy  air, —  and  they 
were  the  only  sounds.  A  little  breeze  came  up,  slowly  clear- 
ing the  mist  away.  Streaks  of  green  showed  through  the 
moving  banks  of  vapour.  The  birds  became  more  agitated. 
That  dull  stretch  of  grey  and  green  was  No  Man's  Land. 
Those  low,  zigzag  mounds,  like  giant  molehills  protected  by 
wire  hurdles,  were  the  Hun  trenches ;  five  or  six  lines  of  them. 
He  could  easily  follow  the  communication  trenches  without  a 
glass.  At  one  point  their  front  line  could  not  be  more  than 
eighty  yards  away,  at  another  it  must  be  all  of  three  hundred. 
Here  and  there  thin  columns  of  smoke  began  to  rise;  the  Hun 
was  getting  breakfast;  everything  was  comfortable  and 
natural.  Behind  the  enemy's  position  the  country  rose  gradu- 
ally for  several  miles,  with  ravines  and  little  woods,  where, 
according  to  his  map,  they  had  masked  artillery.  Back  on  the 

363 


364  One  of  Ours 


hills  were  ruined  farmhouses  and  broken  trees,  but  nowhere 
a  living  creature  in  sight.  It  was  a  dead,  nerveless  country- 
side, sunk  in  quiet  and  dejection.  Yet  everywhere  the  ground 
was  full  of  men.  Their  own  trenches,  from  the  other  side, 
must  look  quite  as  dead.  Life  was  a  secret,  these  days. 

It  was  amazing  how  simply  things  could  be  done.  His 
battalion  had  marched  in  quietly  at  midnight,  and  the  line  they 
came  to  relieve  had  set  out  as  silently  for  the  rear.  It  all 
took  place  in  utter  darkness.  Just  as  B  Company  slid  down 
an  incline  into  the  shallow  rear  trenches,  the  country  was  lit 
for  a  moment  by  two  star  shells,  there  was  a  rattling  of 
machine  guns,  German  Maxims, —  a  sporadic  crackle  that  was 
not  followed  up.  Filing  along  the  communication  trenches, 
they  listened  anxiously;  artillery  fire  would  have  made  it  bad 
for  the  other  men  who  were  marching  to  the  rear.  But  noth- 
ing happened.  They  had  a  quiet  night,  and  this  morning, 
here  they  were! 

The  sky  flamed  up  saffron  and  silver.  Claude  looked  at 
his  watch,  but  he  could  not  bear  to  go  just  yet.  How  long  it 
took  a  Wheeler  to  get  round  to  anything !  Four  years  on  the 
way;  now  that  he  was  here,  he  would  enjoy  the  scenery  a  bit, 
he  guessed.  He  wished  his  mother  could  know  how  he  felt 
this  morning.  But  perhaps  she  did  know.  At  any  rate,  she 
would  not  have  him  anywhere  else.  Five  years  ago,  when  he 
was  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  Denver  State  House  and  knew 
that  nothing  unexpected  could  ever  happen  to  him  .  .  .  sup- 
pose he  could  have  seen,  in  a  flash,  where  he  would  be  today? 
He  cast  a  long  look  at  the  reddening,  lengthening  landscape, 
and  dropped  down  on  the  duckboard. 

Claude  made  his  way  back  to  the  dugout  into  which  he  and 
Gerhardt  had  thrown  their  effects  last  night.  The  former 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     365 

occupants  had  left  it  clean.  There  were  two  bunks  nailed 
against  the  side  walls, — •  wooden  frames  with  wire  netting  over 
them,  covered  with  dry  sandbags.  Between  the  two  bunks 
was  a  soap-box  table,  with  a  candle  stuck  in  a  green  bottle, 
an  alcohol  stove,  a  bain-marie,  and  two  tin  cups.  On  the  wall 
were  coloured  pictures  from  Jugend,  taken  out  of  some  Hun 
trench. 

He  found  Gerhardt  still  asleep  on  hrs  bed,  and  shook  him 
until  he  sat  up. 

"How  long  have  you  been  out,  Claude?     Didn't  you  sleep?*' 

"A  little.  I  wasn't  very  tired.  I  suppose  we  could  heat 
shaving  water  on  this  stove;  they've  left  us  half  a  bottle  of 
alcohol.  It's  quite  a  comfortable  little  hole,  isn't  it?" 

"It  will  doubtless  serve  its  purpose,"  David  remarked  dryly. 
"So  sensitive  to  any  criticism  of  this  war !  Why,  it's  not  your 
affair;  you've  only  just  arrived." 

"I  know,"  Claude  replied  meekly,  as  he  began  to  fold  his 
blankets.  "But  it's  likely  the  only  one  I'll  ever  be  in,  so  I 
may  as  well  take  an  interest." 

The  next  afternoon  four  young  men,  all  more  or  less  naked, 
were  busy  about  a  shellhole  full  of  opaque  brown  water.  Ser- 
geant Hicks  and  his  chum,  Dell  Able,  had  hunted  through  half 
the  blazing  hot  morning  to  find  a  hole  not  too  scummy,  con- 
veniently, and  even  picturesquely  situated,  and  had  reported 
it  to  the  Lieutenants.  Captain  Maxey,  Hicks  said,  could  send 
his  own  orderly  to  find  his  own  shellhole,  and  could  take  his 
bath  in  private.  "He'd  never  wash  himself  with  anybody 
else,"  the  Sergeant  added.  "Afraid  of  exposing  his  dignity !" 

Bruger  and  Hammond,  the  two  second  Lieutenants,  were 
already  out  of  their  bath,  and  reclined  on  what  might  almost 


366  One  of  Ours 


be  termed  a  grassy  slope,  examining  various  portions  of  their 
body  with  interest.  They  hadn't  had  all  their  clothes  off  for 
some  time,  and  four  days  of  marching  in  hot  weather  made 
a  man  anxious  to  look  at  himself. 

"You  wait  till  winter,"  Gerhardt  told  them.  He  was  still 
splashing  in  the  hole,  up  to  his  armpits  in  muddy  water. 
"You  won't  get  a  wash  once  in  three  months  then.  Some  of 
the  Tommies  told  me  that  when  they  got  their  first  bath  after 
Vimy,  their  skins  peeled  off  like  a  snake's.  What  are  you 
doing  with  my  trousers,  Bruger?" 

"Hunting  for  your  knife.  I  dropped  mine  yesterday,  when 
that  shell  exploded  in  the  cut-off.  I  darned  near  dropped  my 
old  nut!" 

"Shucks,  that  wasn't  anything.  Don't  keep  blowing  about 
it  —  shows  you're  a  greenhorn." 

Claude  stripped  off  his  shirt  and  slid  into  the  pool  beside 
Gerhardt.  "Gee,  I  hit  something  sharp  down  there!  Why 
didn't  you  fellows  pull  out  the  splinters?" 

He  shut  his  eyes,  disappeared  for  a  moment,  and  came 
up  sputtering,  throwing  on  the  ground  a  round  metal  object, 
coated  with  rust  and  full  of  slime.  "German  helmet,  isn't  it? 
Phew!"  He  wiped  his  face  and  looked  about  suspiciously. 

"Phew  is  right !"  Bruger  turned  the  object  over  with  a  stick. 
"Why  in  hell  didn't  you  bring  up  the  rest  of  him?  You've 
spoiled  my  bath.  I  hope  you  enjoy  it." 

Gerhardt  scrambled  up  the  side.  "Get  out,  Wheeler !  Look 
at  that,"  he  pointed  to  big  sleepy  bubbles,  bursting  up  through 
the  thick  water.  "You've  stirred  up  trouble,  all  right !  Some- 
thing's going  very  bad  down  there." 

Claude  got  out  after  him,  looking  back  at  the  activity  in  the 
water.  "I  don't  see  how  pulling  out  one  helmet  could  stir  the 


"Biddinq  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     367 

bottom  up  so.  I  should  think  the  water  would  keep  the  smell 
down." 

"Ever  study  chemistry?"  Bruger  asked  scornfully.  "You 
just  opened  up  a  graveyard,  and  now  we  get  the  exhaust.  If 
you  swallowed  any  of  that  German  cologne —  Oh,  you  should 
worry !" 

Lieutenant  Hammond,  still  barelegged,  with  his  shirt  tied 
over  his  shoulders,  was  scratching  in  his  notebook.  Before 
they  left  he  put  up  a  placard  on  a  split  stick. 

No  Public  Bathing!   !     Private  Beach 

C.  Wheeler,  Co.  B.  2-th  Inf'ty. 


The  first  letters  from  home!  The  supply  wagons  brought 
them  up,  and  every  man  in  the  Company  got  something  except 
Ed  Drier,  a  farm-hand  from  the  Nebraska  sand  hills,  and  Willy 
Katz,  the  tow-headed  Austrian  boy  from  the  South  Omaha  pack- 
ing-houses. Their  comrades  were  sorry  for  them.  Ed  didn't 
have  any  "folks"  of  his  own,  but  he  had  expected  letters  all  the 
same.  Willy  was  sure  his  mother  must  have  written.  When 
the  last  ragged  envelope  was  given  out  and  he  turned  away 
empty-handed,  he  murmured,  "She's  Bohunk,  and  she  don't 
write  so  good.  I  guess  the  address  wasn't  plain,  and  some  fel- 
low in  another  comp'ny  has  got  my  letter." 

No  second  class  matter  was  sent  up, —  the  boys  had  hoped 
for  newspapers  from  home  to  give  them  a  little  war  news,  since 
they  never  got  any  here.  Dell  Abie's  sister,  however,  had  en- 
closed a  clipping  from  the  Kansas  City  Star;  a  long  account  by 
one  of  the  British  war  correspondents  in  Mesopotamia,  de- 
scribing the  hardships  the  soldiers  suffered  there;  dysentery, 
flies,  mosquitoes,  unimaginable  heat.  He  read  this  article  aloud 


368  One  of  Ours 


to  a  group  of  his  friends  as  they  sat  about  a  shell-hole  pool 
where  they  had  been  washing  their  socks.  He  had  just  finished 
the  story  of  how  the  Tommies  had  found  a  few  mud  huts  at  the 
place  where  the  original  Garden  of  Eden  was  said  to  have  been, 
—  a  desolate  spot  full  of  stinging  insects  —  when  Oscar 
Petersen,  a  very  religious  Swedish  boy  who  was  often 
silent  for  days  together,  opened  his  mouth  and  said  scorn- 
fully, 

"That's  a  lie!" 

Dell  looked  up  at  him,  annoyed  by  the  interruption.  "How 
do  you  know  it  is?" 

"Because ;  the  Lord  put  four  cherubims  with  swords  to  guard 
the  Garden,  and  there  ain't  no  man  going  to  find  it.  It  ain't 
intended  they  should.  The  Bible  says  so." 

Hicks  began  to  laugh.  "Why,  that  was  about  six  thousand 
years  ago,  you  cheese!  Do  you  suppose  your  cherubims  are 
still  there?" 

"  'Course  they  are.  What's  a  thousand  years  to  a  cherubim  ? 
Nothin' !" 

The  Swede  rose  and  sullenly  gathered  up  his  socks. 

Dell  Able  looked  at  'his  chum.  "Ain't  he  the  complete  bone- 
head?  Solid  ivory!" 

Oscar  wouldn't  listen  further  to  a  "pack  of  lies"  and  walked 
off  with  his  washing. 

Battalion  Headquarters  was  nearly  half  a  mile  behind  the 
front  line,  part  dugout,  part  shed,  with  a  plank  roof  sodded 
over.  The  Colonel's  office  was  partitioned  off  at  one  end ;  the 
rest  of  the  place  he  gave  over  to  the  officers  for  a  kind  of  club 
room.  One  night  Claude  went  back  to  make  a  report  on  the 
new  placing  of  the  gun  teams.  The  young  officers  were  sitting 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     369 

about  on  soap  boxes,  smoking  and  eating  sweet  crackers  out  of 
tin  cases.  Gerhardt  was  working  at  a  plank  table  with  paper 
and  crayons,  making  a  clean  copy  of  a  rough  map  they  had 
drawn  up  together  that  morning,,  showing  the  limits  of  fire. 
Noise  didn't  fluster  him ;  he  could  sit  among  a  lot  of  men  and 
write  as  calmly  as  if  he  were  alone. 

There  was  one  officer  who  could  talk  all  the  others  down, 
wherever  he  was ;  Captain  Barclay  Owens,  attached  from  the 
Engineers.  He  was  a  little  stumpy  thumb  of  a  man,  only  five 
feet  four,  and  very  broad, —  a  dynamo  of  energy.  Before  the 
war  he  was  building  a  dam  in  Spain,  "the  largest  dam  in  the 
world,"  and  in  his  excavations  he  had  discovered  the  ruins  of 
one  of  Julius  Caesar's  fortified  camps.  This  had  been  too 
much  for  his  easily-inflamed  imagination.  He  photographed 
and  measured  and  brooded  upon  these  ancient  remains.  He 
was  an  engineer  by  day  and  an  archaeologist  by  night.  He 
had  crates  of  books  sent  down  from  Paris, —  everything  that 
had  been  written  on  Caesar,  in  French  and  German ;  he  engaged 
a  young  priest  to  translate  them  aloud  to  him  in  the  evening. 
The  priest  believed  the  American  was  mad. 

When  Owens  was  in  college  he  had  never  shown  the  least 
interest  in  classical  studies,  but  now  it  was  as  if  he  were  giving 
birth  to  Caesar.  The  war  came  along,  and  stopped  the  work  on 
his  dam.  It  also  drove  other  ideas  into  his  exclusively  en- 
gineering brains.  He  rushed  home  to  Kansas  to  explain  the 
war  to  his  countrymen..  He  travelled  about  the  West,  dem- 
onstrating exactly  what  had  happened  at  the  first  battle  of  the 
Marne,  until  he  had  a  chance  to  enlist. 

In  the  Battalion,  Owens  was  called  "Julius  Caesar,"  and  the 
men  never  knew  whether  he  was  explaining  the  Roman  general's 
operations  in  Spain,  or  Joffre's  at  the  Marne,  he  jumped  so  from 


370  One  of  Ours 


one  to  the  other.  Everything  was  in  the  foreground  with  him ; 
centuries  made  no  difference.  Nothing  existed  until  Barclay 
Owens  found  out  about  it.  The  men  liked  to  hear  him  talk. 
Tonight  he  was  walking  up  and  down,  his  yellow  eyes  rolling, 
a  big  black  cigar  in  his  hand,  lecturing  the  young  officers  upon 
French  characteristics,  coaching  and  preparing  them.  It  was 
his  legs  that  made  him  so  funny;  his  trunk  was  that  of  a  big 
man,  set  on  two  short  stumps. 

"Now  you  fellows  don't  want  to  forget  that  the  night-life  of 
Paris  is  not  a  typical  thing  at  all;  that's  a  show  got  up  for 
foreigners.  .  .  .  The  French  peasant,  he's  a  thrifty  fellow.  .  .  . 
This  red  wine's  all  right  if  you  don't  abuse  it;  take  it  two-thirds 
water  and  it  keeps  off  dysentery.  .  .  .  You  don't  have  to  be 
rough  with  them,  simply  firm.  Whenever  one  of  them  accosts 
me,  I  follow  a  regular  plan ;  first,  I  give  her  twenty-five  francs ; 
then  I  look  her  in  the  eye  and  say,  'My  girl,  I've  got  three 
children,  three  boys'  She  gets  the  point  at  once;  never  fails. 
She  goes  away  ashamed  of  herself." 

"But  that's  so  expensive!  It  must  keep  you  poor,  Captain 
Owens,"  said  young  Lieutenant  Hammond  innocently.  The 
others  roared. 

Claude  knew  that  David  particularly  detested  Captain  Owens 
of  the  Engineers,  and  wondered  that  he  could  go  on  working 
with  such  concentration,  when  snatches  of  the  Captain's  lecture 
kept  breaking  through  the  confusion  of  casual  talk  and  the  noise 
of  the  phonograph.  Owens,  as  he  walked  up  and  down,  cast 
furtive  glances  at  Gerhardt.  He  had  got  wind  of  the  fact  that 
there  was  something  out  of  the  ordinary  about  him. 

The  men  kept  the  phonograph  going ;  as  soon  as  one  record 
buzzed  out,  somebody  put  in  another.  Once,  when  a  new  tune 
began,  Claude  saw  David  look  up  from  his  paper  with  a  curious 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     371 

expression.  He  listened  for  a  moment  with  a  half -contemp- 
tuous smile,  then  frowned  and  began  sketching  in  his  map  again. 
Something  about  his  momentary  glance  of  recognition  made 
Claude  wonder  whether  he  had  particular  associations  with  the 
air, —  melancholy,  but  beautiful,  Claude  thought.  He  got  up 
and  went  over  to  change  the  record  himself  this  time.  He  took 
out  the  disk,  and  holding  it  up  to  the  light,  read  the  inscription : 
"Meditation  from  Thai's  —  Violin  solo  —  David  Gerhardt." 

When  they  were  going  back  along  the  communication  trench 
in  the  rain,  wading  single  file,  Claude  broke  the  silence  abruptly. 
"That  was  one  of  your  records  they  played  tonight,  that  violin 
solo,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Sounded  like  it.  Now  we  go  to  the  right.  I  always  get 
lost  here." 

"Are  there  many  of  your  records?" 

"Quite  a  number.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I'd  like  to  write  my  mother.  She's  fond  of  good  music 
She'll  get  your  records,  and  it  will  sort  of  bring  the  whole  thing 
closer  to  her,  don't  you  see  ?" 

"All  right,  Claude,"  said  David  good-naturedly.  "She  will 
find  them  in  the  catalogue,  with  my  picture  in  uniform  along- 
side. I  had  a  lot  made  before  I  went  out  to  Camp  Dix.  My 
own  mother  gets  a  little  income  from  them.  Here  we  are,  at 
home."  As  he  struck  a  match  two  black  shadows  jumped  from 
the  table  and  disappeared  behind  the  blankets.  "Plenty  of 
them  around  these  wet  nights.  Get  one?  Don't  squash  him 
in  there.  Here's  the  sack." 

Gerhardt  held  open  the  mouth  of  a  gunny  sack,  and  Claude 
thrust  the  squirming  corner  of  his  blanket  into  it  and  vigorously 
trampled  whatever  fell  to  the  bottom.  "Where  do  you  suppose 
the  other  is?" 


372  One  of  Ours 


"He'll  join  us  later.  I  don't  mind  the  rats  half  so  much  as 
I  do  Barclay  Owens.  What  a  sight  he  would  be  with 
his  clothes  off!  Turn  in;  I'll  go  the  rounds."  Gerhardt 
splashed  out  along  the  submerged  duckboard.  Claude  took  off 
his  shoes  and  cooled  his  feet  in  the  muddy  water.  He  wished 
he  could  ever  get  David  to  talk  about  his  profession,  and  won- 
dered what  he  looked  like  on  a  concert  platform,  playing  his 
violin. 


IX 

THE  following  night,  Claude  was  sent  back  to  Divi- 
sion Head-quarters  at  Q — —  with  information  the 
Colonel  did  not  care  to  commit  to  paper.  He  set 
off  at  ten  o'clock,  with  Sergeant  Hicks  for  escort.  There  had 
been  two  days  of  rain,  and  the  communication  trenches  were 
almost  knee-deep  in  water.  About  half  a  mile  back  of  the  front 
line,  the  two  men  crawled  out  of  the  ditch  and  went  on  above 
ground.  There  was  very  little  shelling  along  the  front  that 
night.  When  a  flare  went  up,  they  dropped  and  lay  on  their 
faces,  trying,  at  the  same  time,  to  get  a  squint  at  what  was 
ahead  of  them. 

The  ground  was  rough,  and  the  darkness  thick;  it  was  past 
midnight  when  they  reached  the  east-and-west  road  —  usually 
full  of  traffic,  and  not  entirely  deserted  even  on  a  night  like 
this.  Trains  of  horses  were  splashing  through  the  mud,  with 
shells  on  their  backs,  empty  supply  wagons  were  coming  back 
from  the  front.  Claude  and  Hicks  paused  by  the  ditch,  hoping 
to  get  a  ride.  The  rain  began  to  fall  with  such  violence  that 
they  looked  about  for  shelter.  Stumbling  this  way  and  that, 
they  ran  into  a  big  artillery  piece,  the  wheels  sunk  over  the 
hubs  in  a  mud-hole. 

"Who's  there?"  called  a  quick  voice,  unmistakably  British. 

"American  infantrymen,  two  of  us.  Can  we  get  onto  one  of 
your  trucks  till  this  lets  up?" 

"Oh,  certainly!  We  can  make  room  for  you  in  here,  if 
you're  not  too  big.  Speak  quietly,  or  you'll  waken  the  Major." 

373 


374  One  °f  Ours 


Giggles  and  smothered  laughter;  a  flashlight  winked  for  a 
moment  and  showed  a  line  of  five  trucks,  the  front  and  rear 
ones  covered  with  tarpaulin  tents.  The  voices  came  from  the 
shelter  next  the  gun.  The  men  inside  drew  up  their  legs  and 
made  room  for  the  strangers ;  said  they  were  sorry  they  hadn't 
anything  dry  to  offer  them  except  a  little  rum.  The  intruders 
accepted  this  gratefully. 

The  Britishers  were  a  giggly  lot,  and  Claude  thought,  from 
their  voices,  they  must  all  be  very  young.  They  joked  about 
their  Major  as  if  he  were  their  schoolmaster.  There  wasn't 
room  enough  on  the  truck  for  anybody  to  lie  down,  so  they  sat 
with  their  knees  under  their  chins  and  exchanged  gossip.  The 
gun  team  belonged  to  an  independent  battery  that  was  sent 
about  over  the  country,  "wherever  needed."  The  rest  of  the 
battery  had  got  through,  gone  on  to  the  east,  but  this  big  gun 
was  always  getting  into  trouble ;  now  something  had  gone  wrong 
with  her  tractor  and  they  couldn't  pull  her  out.  They  called 
her  "Jenny,"  and  said  she  was  taken  with  fainting  fits  now  and 
then,  and  had  to  be  humoured.  It  was  like  going  about  with 
your  grandmother,  one  of  the  invisible  Tommies  said,  "she  is 
such  a  pompous  old  thing!"  The  Major  was^asleep  on  the 
rear  truck;  he  was  going  to  get  the  V.  C.  for  sleeping.  More 
giggles. 

No,  they  hadn't  any  idea  where  they  were  going;  of  course, 
the  officers  knew,  but  artillery  officers  never  told  anything. 
What  was  this  country  like,  anyhow?  They  were  new  to  this 
part,  had  just  come  down  from  Verdun. 

Claude  said  he  had  a  friend  in  the  air  service  up  there;  did 
they  happen  to  know  anything  about  Victor  Morse  ? 

Morse,  the  American  ace?  Hadn't  he  heard?  Why,  that 
got  into  the  London  papers.  Morse  was  shot  down  inside  the 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     37$ 

Hun  line  three  weeks  ago.  It  was  a  brilliant  affair.  He  was 
chased  by  eight  Boche  planes,  brought  down  three  of  them,  put 
the  rest  to  flight,  and  was  making  for  base,  when  they  turned 
and  got  him.  His  machine  came  down  in  flames  and  he  jumped, 
fell  a  thousand  feet  or  more. 

"Then  I  suppose  he  never  got  his  leave  ?"  Claude  asked. 

They  didn't  know.     He  got  a  fine  citation. 

The  men  settled  down  to  wait  for  the  weather  to  improve  or 
the  night  to  pass.  Some  of  them  fell  into  a  doze,  but  Claude 
felt  wide  awake.  He  was  wondering  about  the  flat  in  Chelsea ; 
whether  the  heavy-eyed  beauty  had  been  very  sorry,  or  whether 
she  was  playing  "Roses  of  Picardy"  for  other  young  officers. 
He  thought  mournfully  that  he  would  never  go  to  London  now. 
He  had  quite  counted  on  meeting  Victor  there  some  day,  after 
the  Kaiser  had  been  properly  disposed  of.  He  had  really  liked 
Victor.  There  was  something  about  that  fellow  ...  a  sort  of 
debauched  baby,  he  was,  who  went  seeking  his  enemy  in  the 
clouds.  What  other  age  could  have  produced  such  a  figure? 
That  was  one  of  the  things  about  this  war ;  it  took  a  little  fellow 
from  a  little  town,  gave  him  an  air  and  a  swagger,  a  life  like 
a  movie-film, —  and  then  a  death  like  the  rebel  angels. 

A  man  like  Gerhardt,  for  instance,  had  always  lived  in  a  more 
or  less  rose-coloured  world ;  he  belonged  over  here,  really. 
How  could  he  know  what  hard  moulds  and  crusts  the  big 
guns  had  broken  open  on  the  other  side  of  the  sea?  Who 
could  ever  make  him  understand  how  far  it  was  from  the  straw- 
berry bed  and  the  glass  cage  in  the  bank,  to  the  sky-roads 
over  Verdun? 

By  three  o'clock  the  rain  had  stopped.  Claude  and  Hicks 
set  off  aeain,  accompanied  by  one  of  the  gun  team  who  was 
going  back  to  get  help  for  their  tractor.  As  it  began  to  grow 


376  One  of  Ours 


light,  the  two  Americans  wondered  more  and  more  at  the  ex- 
tremely youthful  appearance  of  their  companion.  When  they 
stopped  at  a  shellhole  and  washed  the  mud  from  their  faces, 
the  English  boy,  with  his  helmet  off  and  the  weather  stains 
removed,  showed  a  countenance  of  adolescent  freshness,  al- 
most girlish;  cheeks  like  pink  apples,  yellow  curls  above  his 
forehead,  long,  soft  lashes. 

"You  haven't  been  over  very  long,  have  you  ?"  Claude  asked 
in  a  fatherly  tone,  as  they  took  the  road  again. 

"I  came  out  in  'sixteen.     I  was  formerly  in  the  infantry." 

The  Americans  liked  to  hear  him  talk ;  he  spoke  very  quickly, 
in  a  high,  piping  voice. 

"How  did  you  come  to  change  ?" 

"Oh,  I  belonged  to  one  of  the  Pal  Battalions,  and  we  got 
cut  to  pieces.  When  I  came  out  of  hospital,  I  thought  I'd  try 
another  branch  of  the  service,  seeing  my  pals  were  gone." 

"Now,  just  what  is  a  Pal  Battalion?"  drawled  Hicks.  He 
hated  all  English  words  he  didn't  understand,  though  he  didn't 
mind  French  ones  in  the  least. 

"Fellows  who  signed  up  together  from  school,"  the  lad 
piped. 

Hicks  glanced  at  Claude.  They  both  thought  this  boy  ought 
to  be  in  school  for  some  time  yet,  and  wondered  what  he  looked 
like  when  he  first  came  over. 

"And  you  got  cut  up,  you  say?"  he  asked  sympathetically. 

"Yes,  on  the  Somme.  We  had  rotten  luck.  We  were  sent 
over  to  take  a  trench  and  couldn't.  We  didn't  even  get  to  the 
wire.  The  Hun  was  so  well  prepared  that  time,  we  couldn't 
manage  it.  We  went  over  a  thousand,  and  we  came  back 
seventeen." 

"A  hundred  and  seventeen?" 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     377 

"No,  seventeen." 

Hicks  whistled  and  again  exchanged  looks  with  Claude. 
They  could  neither  of  them  doubt  him.  There  was  something 
very  unpleasant  about  the  idea  of  a  thousand  fresh-faced 
schoolboys  being  sent  out  against  the  guns.  "It  must  have 
been  a  fool  order,"  he  commented.  "Suppose  there  was  some 
mistake  at  Headquarters?" 

"Oh,  no,  Headquarters  knew  what  it  was  about !  We'd  have 
taken  it,  if  we'd  had  any  sort  of  luck.  But  the  Hun  happened 
to  be  full  of  fight.  His  machine  guns  did  for  us." 

"You  were  hit  yourself?"  Claude  asked  him. 

"In  the  leg.  He  was  popping  away  at  me  all  the  while, 
but  I  wriggled  back  on  my  tummy.  When  I  came  out  of  the 
hospital  my  leg  wasn't  strong,  and  there's  less  marching  in  the 
artillery. 

"I  should  think  you'd  have  had  about  enough." 

"Oh,  a  fellow  can't  stay  out  after  all  his  chums  have  been 
killed!  He'd  think  about  it  all  the  time,  you  know,"  the  boy 
replied  in  his  clear  treble. 

Claude  and  Hicks  got  into  Headquarters  just  as  the  cooks 
were  turning  out  to  build  their  fires.  One  of  the  Corporals 
took  them  to  the  officers'  bath, —  a  shed  with  big  tin  tubs, — 
and  carried  away  their  uniforms  to  dry  them  in  the  kitchen. 
It  would  be  an  hour  before  the  officers  would  be  about,  he 
said,  and  in  the  meantime  he  would  manage  to  get  clean  shirts 
and  socks  for  them. 

"Say,  Lieutenant,"  Hicks  brought  out  as  he  was  rubbing 
himself  down  with  a  real  bath  towel,  "I  don't  want  to  hear  any 
more  about  those  Pal  Battalions,  do  you?  It  gets  my  goat. 
So  long  as  we  were  going  to  get  into  this,  we  might  have  been 
a  little  more  previous.  I  hate  to  feel  small." 


378  One  of  Ours 


"Guess  we'll  have  to  take  our  medicine,"  Claude  said  dryly. 
"There  wasn't  anywhere  to  duck,  was  there?  I  felt  like  it. 
'JNice  little  kid.  I  don't  believe  American  boys  ever  seem  as 
young  as  that." 

"Why,  if  you  met  him  anywhere  else,  you'd  be  afraid  of 
using  bad  words  before  him,  he's  so  pretty!  What's  the  use 
of  sending  an  orphan  asylum  out  to  be  slaughtered?  I  can't 
see  it,"  grumbled  the  fat  sergeant.  "Well,  it's  their  business. 
I'm  not  going  to  let  it  spoil  my  breakfast.  Suppose  we'll  draw 
ham  and  eggs,  Lieutenant?" 


AFTER  breakfast  Claude  reported  to  Headquarters  and 
talked  with  one  of  the  staff  Majors.  He  was  told  he 
would  have  to  wait  until  tomorrow  to  see  Colonel 
James,  who  had  been  called  to  Paris  for  a  general  conference. 
He  had  left  in  his  car  at  four  that  morning,  in  response  to  a 
telephone  message. 

"There's  not  much  to  do  here,  by  way  of  amusement,"  said 
the  Major.  "A  movie  show  tonight,  and  you  can  get  anything 
you  want  at  the  estaminet, —  the  one  on  the  square,  opposite 
the  English  tank,  is  the  best.  There  are  a  couple  of  nice 
Frenchwomen  in  the  Red  Cross  barrack,  up  on  the  hill,  in  the 
old  convent  garden.  They  try  to  look  out  for  the  civilian 
population,  and  we're  on  good  terms  with  them.  We  get  their 
supplies  through  with  our  own,  and  the  quartermaster  has 
orders  to  help  them  when  they  run  short.  You  might  go  up 
and  call  on  them.  They  speak  English  perfectly." 

Claude  asked  whether  he  could  walk  in  on  them  without  any 
kind  of  introduction. 

"Oh,  yes,  they're  used  to  us!  I'll  give  you  a  card  to  Mile. 
Olive,  though.  She's  a  particular  friend  of  mine.  There  you 
are :  'Mile.  Olive  de  Courcy,  introducing,  etc'  And,  you  un- 
derstand," here  he  glanced  up  and  looked  Claude  over  from 
head  to  foot,  "she's  a  perfect  lady." 

Even  with  an  introduction,  Claude  felt  some  hesitancy  about 
presenting  himself  to  these  ladies.  Perhaps  they  didn't  like 
Americans;  he  was  always  afraid  of  meeting  French  people 

379 


380  One  of  Ours 


who  didn't.  It  was  the  same  way  with  most  of  the  fellows 
in  his  battalion,  he  had  found;  they  were  terribly  afraid  of 
being  disliked.  And  the  moment  they  felt  they  were  disliked, 
they  hastened  to  behave  as  badly  as  possible,  in  order  to  deserve 
it;  then  they  didn't  feel  that  they  had  been  taken  in  —  the 
worst  feeling  a  doughboy  could  possibly  have ! 

Claude  thought  he  would  stroll  about  to  look  at  the  town  a 
little.  It  had  been  taken  by  the  Germans  in  the  autumn  of 
1914,  after  their  retreat  from  the  Marne,  and  they  had  held  it 
until  about  a  year  ago,  when  it  was  retaken  by  the  English  and 
the  Chasseurs  d'Alpins.  They  had  been  able  to  reduce  it  and  to 
drive  the  Germans  out,  only  by  battering  it  down  with  artillery ; 
not  one  building  remained  standing. 

Ruin  was  ugly,  and  it  was  nothing  more,  Claude  was  think- 
ing, as  he  followed  the  paths  that  ran  over  piles  of  brick  and 
plaster.  There  was  nothing  picturesque  about  this,  as  there 
was  in  the  war  pictures  one  saw  at  home.  A  cyclone  or  a  fire 
might  have  done  just  as  good  a  job.  The  place  was  simply  a 
great  dump-heap;  an  exaggeration  of  those  which  disgrace  the 
outskirts  of  American  towns.  It  was  the  same  thing  over  and 
over;  mounds  of  burned  brick  and  broken  stone,  heaps  of  rusty, 
twisted  iron,  splintered  beams  and  rafters,  stagnant  pools,  cel- 
lar holes  full  of  muddy  water.  An  American  soldier  had 
stepped  into  one  of  those  holes  a  few  nights  before,  and  been 
drowned. 

This  had  been  a  rich  town  of  eighteen  thousand  inhabitants ; 
now  the  civilian  population  was  about  four  hundred.  There 
were  people  there  who  had  hung  on  all  through  the  years  of 
German  occupation ;  others  who,  as  soon  as  they  heard  that  the 
enemy  was  driven  out,  came  back  from  wherever  they  had  found 
shelter.  They  were  living  in  cellars,  or  in  little  wooden  barracks 


''Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     381 

made  from  old  timbers  and  American  goods  boxes.  As  he 
walked  along,  Claude  read  familiar  names  and  addresses, 
painted  on  boards  built  into  the  sides  of  these  frail  shelters: 
"From  Emery  Bird,  Thayer  Co.  Kansas  City,  Mo."  "Daniels 
and  Fisher,  Denver,  Colo."  These  inscriptions  cheered  him 
so  much  that  he  began  to  feel  like  going  up  and  calling  on 
the  French  ladies. 

The  sun  had  come  out  hot  after  three  days  of  rain.  The 
stagnant  pools  and  the  weeds  that  grew  in  the  ditches  gave 
out  a  rank,  heavy  smell.  Wild  flowers  grew  triumphantly  over 
the  piles  of  rotting  wood  and  rusty  iron;  cornflowers  and 
Queen  Anne's  lace  and  poppies;  blue  and  white  and  red,  as 
if  the  French  colours  came  up  spontaneously  out  of  the  French 
soil,  no  matter  what  the  Germans  did  to  it. 

Claude  paused  before  a  little  shanty  built  against  a  half- 
demolished  brick  wall.  A  gilt  cage  hung  in  the  doorway,  with 
a  canary,  singing  beautifully.  An  old  woman  was  working  in 
the  garden  patch,  picking  out  bits  of  brick  and  plaster  the  rain 
had  washed  up,  digging  with  her  fingers  around  the  pale  car- 
rot-tops and  neat  lettuce  heads.  Claude  approached  her, 
touched  his  helmet,  and  asked  her  how  one  could  find  the 
way  to  the  Red  Cross. 

She  wiped  her  hands  on  her  apron  and  took  him  by  the 
elbow.  "Vous  saves  le  tank  Anglais f  Nonf  Marie,  Marie!" 

(He  learned  afterward  that  every  one  was  directed  to  go 
this  way  or  that  from  a  disabled  British  tank  that  had  been 
left  on  the  site  of  the  old  town  hall.) 

A  little  girl  ran  out  of  the  barrack,  and  her  grandmother 
told  her  to  go  at  once  and  take  the  American  to  the  Red 
Cross.  Marie  put  her  hand  in  Claude's  and  led  him  off  along 
one  of  the  paths  that  wound  among  the  rubbish.  She  took 


382  One  of  Ours 


him  out  of  the  way  to  show  him  a  church, —  evidently  one  of 
the  ruins  of  which  they  were  proudest, —  where  the  blue  sky 
was  shining  through  the  white  arches.  The  Virgin  stood 
with  empty  arms  over  the  central  door;  a  little  foot  sticking 
to  her  robe  showed  where  the  infant  Jesus  had  been  shot  away. 

"Le  bebe  est  casse,  mais  il  a  protege  sa  mere''  Marie  ex- 
plained with  satisfaction.  As  they  went  on,  she  told  Claude 
that  she  had  a  soldier  among  the  Americans  who  was  her 
friend.  "II  est  bon,  il  est  gai,  mon  soldat,"  but  he  sometimes 
drank  too  much  alcohol,  and  that  was  a  bad  habit.  Perhaps 
now,  since  his  comrade  had  stepped  into  a  cellar  hole  Monday 
night  while  he  was  drunk,  and  had  been  drowned,  her 
"Sharlie"  would  be  warned  and  would  do  better.  Marie  was 
evidently  a  well  brought  up  child.  Her  father,  she  said, 
had  been  a  schoolmaster.  At  the  foot  of  the  convent  hill 
.she  turned  to  go  home.  Claude  called  her  back  and  awkwardly 
tried  to  give  her  some  money,  but  she  thrust  her  hands  behind 
her  and  said  resolutely,  "Non,  merci.  Je  riai  besoin  de  rien" 
and  then  ran  away  down  the  path. 

As  he  climbed  toward  the  top  of  the  hill  he  noticed  that 
the  ground  had  been  cleaned  up  a  bit.  The  path  was  clear, 
the  bricks  and  hewn  stones  had  been  piled  in  neat  heaps, 
the  broken  hedges  had  been  trimmed  and  the  dead  parts  cut 
away.  Emerging  at  last  into  the  garden,  he  stood  still  for 
wonder;  even  though  it  was  in  ruins,  it  seemed  so  beautiful 
after  the  disorder  of  the  world  below. 

The  gravel  walks  were  clean  and  shining.  A  wall  of  very  old 
boxwoods  stood  green  against  a  row  of  dead  Lombardy  pop- 
lars. Along  the  shattered  side  of  the  main  building,  a  pear 
tree,  trained  on  wires  like  a  vine,  still  flourished, — full  of 
little  red  pears.  Around  the  stone  well  was  a  shaven  grass  plot, 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     383 

and  everywhere  there  were  little  trees  and  shrubs,  which  had 
been  too  low  for  the  shells  to  hit, —  or  for  the  fire,  which  had 
seared  the  poplars,  to  catch.  The  hill  must  have  been  wrapped 
in  flames  at  one  time,  and  all  the  tall  trees  had  been  burned. 

The  barrack  was  built  against  the  walls  of  the  cloister, — 
three  arches  of  which  remained,  like  a  stone  wing  to  the  shed 
of  planks.  On  a  ladder  stood  a  one-armed  young  man,  driv- 
ing nails  very  skilfully  with  his  single  hand.  He  seemed  to 
be  making  a  frame  projection  from  the  sloping  roof,  to  sup- 
port an  awning.  He  carried  his  nails  in  his  mouth.  When  he 
wanted  one,  he  hung  his  hammer  to  the  belt  of  his  trousers, 
took  a  nail  from  between  his  teeth,  stuck  it  into  the  wood, 
and  then  deftly  rapped  it  on  the  head.  Claude  watched  him 
for  a  moment,  then  went  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder  and  held 
out  his  two  hands.  "Laissez-moi"  he  exclaimed. 

The  one  aloft  spat  his  nails  out  into  his  palm,  looked  down, 
and  laughed  He  was  about  Claude's  age,  with  very  yellow 
hair  and  moustache  and  blue  eyes.  A  charming  looking  fellow. 

"Willingly,"  he  said.  "This  is  no  great  affair,  but  I  do 
it  to  amuse  myself,  and  it  will  be  pleasant  for  the  ladies."  He 
descended  and  gave  his  hammer  to  the  visitor.  Claude  set 
to  work  on  the  frame,  while  the  other  went  under  the  stone 
arches  and  brought  back  a  roll  of  canvas, —  part  of  an  old 
tent,  by  the  look  of  it. 

"Un  heritage  dcs  Boches,"  he  explained  unrolling  it  upon 
the  grass.  "I  found  it  among  their  filth  in  the  cellar,  and  had 
the  idea  to  make  a  pavilion  for  the  ladies,  as  our  trees  are 
destroyed."  He  stood  up  suddenly.  "Perhaps  you  have  come 
to  see  the  ladies?" 

"Plus  lard!' 

Very  well,  the  boy  said,  they  would  get  the  pavilion  done 


384  One  of  Ours 


for  a  surprise  for  Mile.  Olive  when  she  returned.  She  was 
down  in  the  town  now,  visiting  the  sick  people.  He  bent  over 
his  canvas  again,  measuring  and  cutting  with  a  pair  of  garden 
shears,  moving  round  the  green  plot  on  his  knees,  and  all  the 
time  singing.  Claude  wished  he  could  understand  the  words 
of  his  song. 

While  they  were  working  together,  tying  the  cloth  up  to 
the  frame,  Claude,  from  his  elevation,  saw  a  tall  girl  coming 
slowly  up  the  path  by  which  he  had  ascended.  She  paused 
at  the  top,  by  the  boxwood  hedge,  as  if  she  were  very  tired, 
and  stood  looking  at  them.  Presently  she  approached  the  lad- 
der and  said  in  slow,  careful  English,  "Good  morning.  Louis 
has  found  help,  I  see." 

Claude  came  down  from  his  perch. 

"Are  you  Mile,  de  Courcy  ?  I  am  Claude  Wheeler.  I  have 
a  note  of  introduction  to  you,  if  I  can  find  it." 

She  took  the  card,  but  did  not  look  at  it.  "That  is  not 
necessary.  Your  uniform  is  enough.  Why  have  you  come?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  some  confusion.  "Well,  really,  I  don't 
know!  I  am  just  in  from  the  front  to  see  Colonel  James, 
and  he  is  in  Paris,  so  I  must  wait  over  a  day.  One  of  the  staff 
suggested  my  coming  up  here  —  I  suppose  because  it  is  so  nice !" 
he  finished  ingenuously. 

"Then  you  are  a  guest  from  the  front,  and  you  will  have 
lunch  with  Louis  and  me.  Madame  Barre  is  also  gone  for  the 
day.  Will  you  see  our  house?"  She  led  him  through  the  low 
door  into  a  living  room,  unpainted,  uncarpeted,  light  and  airy. 
There  were  coloured  war  posters  on  the  clean  board  walls, 
brass  shell-cases  full  of  wild  flowers  and  garden  flowers,  can- 
vas camp-chairs,  a  shelf  of  books ,  a  table  covered  by  a 
white  silk  shawl  embroidered  with  big  butterflies.  The  sun- 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     38$ 

light  on  the  floor,  the  bunches  of  fresh  flowers,  the  white  win- 
dow curtains  stirring  in  the  breeze,  reminded  Claude  of  some- 
thing, but  he  could  not  remember  what. 

"We  have  no  guest  room,"  said  Mile,  de  Courcy.  "But 
you  will  come  to  mine,  and  Louis  will  bring  you  hot  water 
to  wash." 

In  a  wooden  chamber  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  Claude  took 
off  his  coat,  and  set  to  work  to  make  himself  as  tidy  as  pos- 
sible. Hot  water  and  scented  soap  were  in  themselves  pleas- 
ant things.  The  dresser  was  an  old  goods  box,  stood  on  end 
and  covered  with  white  lawn.  On  it  there  was  a  row  of 
ivory  toilet  things,  with  combs  and  brushes,  powder  and 
cologne,  and  a  pile  of  white  handkerchiefs  fresh  from  the 
iron.  He  felt  that  he  ought  not  to  look  about  him  much,  but 
the  odor  of  cleanness,  and  the  indefinable  air  of  personality, 
tempted  him.  In  one  corner,  a  curtain  on  a  rod  made  a 
clothes-closet;  in  another  was  a  low  iron  bed,  like  a  soldier's, 
with  a  pale  blue  coverlid  and  white  pillows.  He  moved  care- 
fully and  splashed  discreetly.  There  was  nothing  he  could 
have  damaged  or  broken,  not  even  a  rug  on  the  plank  floor, 
and  the  pitcher  and  hand-basin  were  of  iron;  yet  he  felt 
as  if  he  were  imperilling  something  fragile. 

When  he  came  out,  the  table  in  the  living  room  was  set 
for  three.  The  stout  old  dame  who  was  placing  the  plates 
paid  no  attention  to  him, —  seemed,  from  her  expression,  to 
scorn  him  and  all  his  kind.  He  withdrew  as  far  as  possible 
out  of  her  path  and  picked  up  a  book  from  the  table,  a  volume 
of  Heine's  Reisebilder  in  German. 

Before  lunch  Mile,  de  Courcy  showed  him  the  store  room 
in  the  rear,  where  the  shelves  were  stocked  with  rows  of  cof- 
fee tins,  condensed  milk,  canned  vegetables  and  meat,  all  with 


386  One  of  Ours 


American  trade  names  he  knew  so  well;  names  which  seemed 
doubly  familiar  and  "reliable"  here,  so  far  from  home.  She 
told  him  the  people  in  the  town  could  not  have  got  through 
the  winter  without  these  things.  She  had  to  deal  them  out 
sparingly,  where  the  need  was  greatest,  but  they  made  the  dif- 
ference between  life  and  death.  Now  that  it  was  summer, 
the  people  lived  by  their  gardens;  but  old  women  still  came 
to  beg  for  a  few  ounces  of  coffee,  and  mothers  to  get  a  can 
of  milk  for  the  babies. 

Claude's  face  glowed  with  pleasure.  Yes,  his  country  had 
a  long  arm.  People  forgot  that;  but  here,  he  felt,  was  some 
one  who  did  not  forget.  When  they  sat  down  to  lunch  he 
learned  that  Mile,  de  Courcy  and  Madame  Barre  had  been 
here  almost  a  year  now ;  they  came  soon  after  the  town  was  re- 
taken, when  the  old  inhabitants  began  to  drift  back.  The 
people  brought  with  them  only  what  they  could  carry  in  their 
arms. 

"They  must  love  their  country  so  much,  don't  you  think,  when 
they  endure  such  poverty  to  come  back  to  it  ?"  she  said.  "Even 
the  old  ones  do  not  often  complain  about  their  dear  things — 
their  linen,  and  their  china,  and  their  beds.  If  they  have  the 
ground,  and  hope,  all  that  they  can  make  again.  This  war  has 
taught  us  all  how  little  the  made  things  matter.  Only  the  feel- 
ing matters." 

Exactly  so;  hadn't  he  been  trying  to  say  this  ever  since  he 
was  born?  Hadn't  he  always  known  it,  and  hadn't  it  made 
life  both  bitter  and  sweet  for  him?  What  a  beautiful  voice 
she  had,  this  Mile.  Olive,  and  how  nobly  it  dealt  with  the  Eng- 
lish tongue.  He  would  like  to  say  something,  but  out  of  so 
much  .  .  .  what?  He  remained  silent,  therefore,  sat  nerv- 
ously breaking  up  the  black  war  bread  that  lay  beside  his  plate. 


''Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     387 

He  saw  her  looking  at  his  hand,  felt  in  a  flash  that  she  re- 
garded it  with  favour,  and  instantly  put  it  on  his  knee,  under 
the  table. 

"It  is  our  trees  that  are  worst,"  she  went  on  sadly. 
"You  have  seen  our  poor  trees?  It  makes  one  ashamed  for 
this  beautiful  part  of  France.  Our  people  are  more  sorry  for 
them  than  to  lose  their  cattle  and  horses." 

Mile,  de  Courcy  looked  over- taxed  by  care  and  responsi- 
bility, Claude  thought,  as  he  watched  her.  She  seemed  far 
from  strong.  Slender,  grey-eyed,  dark-haired,  with  white 
transparent  skin  and  a  too  ardent  colour  in  her  lips  and  cheeks, 
—  like  the  flame  of  a  feverish  activity  within.  Her  shoulders 
drooped,  as  if  she  were  always  tired.  She  must  be  young,  too, 
though  there  were  threads  of  grey  in  her  hair, —  brushed  flat 
and  knotted  carelessly  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

After  the  coffee,  Mile,  de  Courcy  went  to  work  at  her  desk, 
and  Louis  took  Claude  to  show  him  the  garden.  The  clearing 
and  trimming  and  planting  were  his  own  work,  and  he  had 
done  it  all  with  one  arm.  This  autumn  he  would  accomplish 
much  more,  for  he  was  stronger  now,  and  he  had  the  habitude 
of  working  single-handed.  He  must  manage  to  get  the  dead 
trees  down;  they  distressed  Mademoiselle  Olive.  In  front  of 
the  barrack  stood  four  old  locusts ;  the  tops  were  naked  forks, 
burned  coal-black,  but  the  lower  branches  had  put  out  thick  tufts 
of  yellow-green  foliage,  so  vigorous  that  the  life  in  the  trunks 
must  still  be  sound.  This  fall,  Louis  said,  he  meant  to  get 
some  strong  American  boys  to  help  him,  and  they  would  saw 
off  the  dead  limbs  and  trim  the  tops  flat  over  the  thick  boles. 
How  much  it  must  mean  to  a  man  to  love  his  country  like 
this,  Claude  thought;  to  love  its  trees  and  flowers;  to  nurse  it 
when  it  was  sick,  and  tend  its  hurts  with  one  arm. 


388  One  of  Ours 


Among  the  flowers,  which  had  come  back  self-sown  or  from 
old  roots,  Claude  found  a  group  of  tall,  straggly  plants  with  red- 
dish stems  and  tiny  white  blossoms, —  one  of  the  evening  prim- 
rose family,  the  Gaum,  that  grew  along  the  clay  banks  of 
Lovely  Creek,  at  home.  He  had  never  thought  it  very  pretty, 
but  he  was  pleased  to  find  it  here.  He  had  supposed  it  was 
one  of  those  nameless  prairie  flowers  that  grew  on  the  prairie 
and  nowhere  else. 

When  they  went  back  to  the  barrack,  Mile.  Olive  was  sitting 
in  one  of  the  canvas  chairs  Louis  had  placed  under  the  new 
pavilion. 

"What  a  fine  fellow  he  is !"  Claude  exclaimed,  looking  after 
him. 

"Louis  ?  Yes.  He  was  my  brother's  orderly.  When  Emile 
came  home  on  leave  he  always  brought  Louis  with  him,  and 
Louis  became  like  one  of  the  family.  The  shell  that  killed  my 
brother  tore  off  his  arm.  My  mother  and  I  went  to  visit  him 
in  the  hospital,  and  he  seemed  ashamed  to  be  alive,  poor  boy, 
when  my  brother  was  dead.  He  put  his  hand  over  his  face 
and  began  to  cry,  and  said,  'Oh,  Madame,  il  etait  toujours  plus 
chic  que  moil' '' 

Although  Mile.  Olive  spoke  English  well,  Claude  saw  that 
she  did  so  only  by  keeping  her  mind  intently  upon  it.  The 
stiff  sentences  she  uttered  were  foreign  to  her  nature ;  her  face 
and  eyes  ran  ahead  of  her  tongue  and  made  one  wait 
eagerly  for  what  was  coming.  He  sat  down  in  a  sagging 
canvas  chair,  absently  twisting  a  sprig  of  Gaura  he  had 
pulled. 

"You  have   found  a  flower?"     She  looked  up. 

"Yes.     It  grows  at  home,  on  my  father's  farm." 

She  dropped  the  faded  shirt  she  was  darning.     "Oh,  tell 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     389 

me  about  your  country!  I  have  talked  to  so  many,  but  it  is 
difficult  to  understand.  Yes,  tell  me  about  that!" 

Nebraska  —  What  was  it  ?  How  many  days  from  the  sea, 
what  did  it  look  like?  As  he  tried  to  describe  it,  she  listened 
with  half-closed  eyes.  "Flat  —  covered  with  grain  —  muddy 
rivers.  I  think  it  must  be  like  Russia.  But  your  father's 
farm ;  describe  that  to  me,  minutely,  and  perhaps  I  can  see  the 
rest." 

Claude  took  a  stick  and  drew  a  square  in  the  sand:  there, 
to  begin  with,  was  the  house  and  farmyard;  there  was  the 
big  pasture,  with  Lovely  Creek  flowing  through  it;  there  were 
the  wheatfields  and  cornfields,  the  timber  claim;  more  wheat 
and  corn,  more  pastures.  There  it  all  was,  diagrammed  on  the 
yellow  sand,  with  shadows  gliding  over  it  from  the  half-charred 
locust  trees.  He  would  not  have  believed  that  he  could  tell 
a  stranger  about  it  in  such  detail.  It  was  partly  due  to  his 
listener,  no  doubt;  she  gave  him  unusual  sympathy,  and  the 
glow  of  an  unusual  mind.  While  she  bent  over  his  map, 
questioning  him,  a  light  dew  of  perspiration  gathered  on  her 
upper  lip,  and  she  breathed  faster  from  her  effort  to  see  and 
understand  everything.  He  told  her  about  his  mother  and 
his  father  and  Mahailey;  what  life  was  like  there  in  summer 
and  winter  and  autumn  —  what  it  had  been  like  in  that  fateful 
summer  when  the  Hun  was  moving  always  toward  Paris,  and 
on  those  three  days  when  the  French  were  standing  at  the 
Marne;  how  his  mother  and  father  waited  for  him  to  bring 
the  news  at  night,  and  how  the  very  cornfields  seemed  to  hold 
their  breath. 

Mile.  Olive  sank  back  wearily  in  her  chair.  Claude  looked 
up  and  saw  tears  sparkling  in  her  brilliant  eyes.  "And  I  my- 
self," she  murmured,  "did  not  know  of  the  Marne  until  days 


390  One  of  Ours 


afterward,  though  my  father  and  brother  were  both  there! 
I  was  far  off  in  Brittany,  and  the  trains  did  not  run.  That  is 
what  is  wonderful,  that  you  are  here,  telling  me  this !  We, — 
we  were  taught  from  childhood  that  some  day  the  Germans 
would  come ;  we  grew  up  under  that  threat.  But  you  were  so 
safe,  with  all  your  wheat  and  corn.  Nothing  could  touch  you, 
nothing!" 

Claude  dropped  his  eyes.  "Yes,"  he  muttered,  blushing, 
"shame  could.  It  pretty  nearly  did.  We  are  pretty  late."  He 
rose  from  his  chair  as  if  he  were  going  to  fetch  something. 
.  .  .  But  where  was  he  to  get  it  from?  He  shook  his  head. 
"I  am  afraid,"  he  said  mournfully,  "there  is  nothing  I  can  say 
to  make  you  understand  how  far  away  it  all  seemed,  how  al- 
most visionary.  It  didn't  only  seem  miles  away,  it  seemed 
centuries  away." 

"But  you  do  come, —  so  many,  and  from  so  far !  It  is  the  last 
miracle  of  this  war.  I  was  in  Paris  on  the  fourth  day  of  July, 
when  your  Marines,  just  from  Belleau  Wood,  marched  for 
your  national  fete,  and  I  said  to  myself  as  they  came  on, 
'That  is  a  new  man!'  Such  heads  they  had,  so  fine  there,  be- 
hind the  ears.  Such  discipline  and  purpose.  Our  people 
laughed  and  called  to  them  and  threw  them  flowers,  but  they 
never  turned  to  look  .  .  .  eyes  straight  before.  They  passed 
like  men  of  destiny."  She  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  swift 
movement  and  dropped  them  in  her  lap.  The  emotion  of  that 
day  came  back  in  her  face.  As  Claude  looked  at  her  burning 
cheeks,  her  burning  eyes,  he  understood  that  the  strain  of  this 
war  had  given  her  a  perception  that  was  almost  like  a  gift  of 
prophecy. 

A  woman  came  up  the  hill  carrying  a  baby.  Mile,  de  Courcy 
went  to  meet  her  and  took  her  into  the  house.  Claude  sat 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     391 

down  again,  almost  lost  to  himself  in  the  feeling  of  being  com- 
pletely understood,  of  being  no  longer  a  stranger.  In  the  far 
distance  the  big  guns  were  booming  at  intervals.  Down  in  the 
garden  Louis  was  singing.  Again  he  wished  he  knew  the 
words  of  Louis'  songs.  The  airs  were  rather  melancholy,  but 
they  were  sung  very  cheerfully.  There  was  something  open 
and  warm  about  the  boy's  voice,  as  there  was  about  his  face — 
something  blond,  too.  It  was  distinctly  a  blond  voice,  like 
summer  wheat-fields,  ripe  and  waving.  Claude  sat  alone  for 
half  an  hour  or  more,  tasting  a  new  kind  of  happiness,  a  new 
kind  of  sadness.  Ruin  and  new  birth;  the  shudder  of  ugly 
things  in  the  past,  the  trembling  image  of  beautiful  ones  on  the 
horizon ;  finding  and  losing ;  that  was  life,  he  saw. 

When  his  hostess  came  back,  he  moved  her  chair  for 
her  out  of  the  creeping  sunlight.  "I  didn't  know  there 
were  any  French  girls  like  you,"  he  said  simply,  as  she  sat 
down. 

She  smiled.  "I  do  not  think  there  are  any  French  girls 
left.  There  are  children  and  women.  I  was  twenty-one  when 
the  war  came,  and  I  had  never  been  anywhere  without  my 
mother  or  my  brother  or  sister.  Within  a  year  I  went  all  over 
France  alone;  with  soldiers,  with  Senegalese,  with  anybody. 
Everything  is  different  with  us."  She  lived  at  Versailles,  she 
told  him,  where  her  father  had  been  an  instructor  in  the  Mil- 
itary School.  He  had  died  since  the  beginning  of  the  war. 
Her  grandfather  was  killed  in  the  war  of  1870.  Hers  was  a 
family  of  soldiers,  but  not  one  of  the  men  would  be  left  to  see 
the  day  of  victory. 

She  looked  so  tired  that  Claude  knew  he  had  no  right  to 
stay.  Long  shadows  were  falling  in  the  garden.  It  was  hard 
to  leave ;  but  an  hour  more  or  less  wouldn't  matter.  Two  pea- 


392  One  of  Ours 


pie  could  hardly  give  each  other  more  if  they  were  together 
for  years,  he  thought. 

"Will  you  tell  me  where  I  can  come  and  see  you,  if  we  both 
get  through  this  war?"  he  asked  as  he  rose. 

He  wrote  it  down  in  his  notebook. 

"I  shall  look  for  you/'  she  said,  giving  him  her  hand. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  take  his  helmet  and  go.  At 
the  edge  of  the  hill,  just  before  he  plunged  down  the  path,  he 
stopped  and  glanced  back  at  the  garden  lying  flattened  in  the 
sun ;  the  three  stone  arches,  the  dahlias  and  marigolds,  the  glis- 
tening boxwood  wall.  He  had  left  something  on  the  hilltop 
which  he  would  never  find  again. 

The  next  afternoon  Claude  and  his  sergeant  set  off  for  the 
front.  They  had  been  told  at  Headquarters  that  they  could 
shorten  their  route  by  following  the  big  road  to  the  military 
cemetery,  and  then  turning  to  the  left.  It  was  not  advisable 
to  go  the  latter  half  of  the  way  before  nightfall,  so  they  took 
their  time  through  the  belt  of  straggling  crops  and  hayfields. 

When  they  struck  the  road  they  came  upon  a  big  Highlander 
sitting  in  the  end  of  an  empty  supply  wagon,  smoking  a  pipe 
and  rubbing  the  dried  mud  out  of  his  kilts.  The  horses  were 
munching  in  their  nose-bags,  and  the  driver  had  disappeared. 
The  Americans  hadn't  happened  to  meet  with  any  Highlanders 
before,  and  were  curious.  This  one  must  be  a  good  fighter, 
they  thought;  a  brawny  giant  with  a  bulldog  jaw,  and  a  face 
as  red  and  knobby  as  his  knees.  More  because  he  admired  the 
looks  of  the  man  than  because  he  needed  information,  Hicks 
went  up  and  asked  him  if  he  had  noticed  a  military  cemetery 
on  the  road  back.  The  Kiltie  nodded. 

"About  how  far  back  would  you  say  it  was?" 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     393 

"I  wouldn't  say  at  all.  I  take  no  account  of  their  kilometers," 
he  replied  drily,  rubbing  away  at  his  skirt  as  if  he  had  it  in  a 
washtub. 

"Well,  about  how  long  will  it  take  us  to  walk  it?" 

"That  I  couldn't  say.     A  Scotsman  would  do  it  in  an  hour." 

"I  guess  a  Yankee  can  do  it  as  quick  as  a  Scotchman,  can't 
he?"  Hicks  asked  jovially. 

"That  I  couldn't  say.  You've  been  four  years  gettin'  this 
far,  I  know  verra  well." 

Hicks  blinked  as  if  he  had  been  hit.  "Oh,  if  that's  the  way 
you  talk — "' 

"That's  the  way  I  do,"  said  the  other  sourly. 

Claude  put  out  a  warning  hand.  "Come  on,  Hicks.  You'll 
get  nothing  by  it."  They  went  up  the  road  very  much  dis- 
concerted. Hicks  kept  thinking  of  things  he  might  have  said. 
When  he  was  angry,  the  Sergeant's  forehead  puffed  up  and  be- 
came dark  red,  like  a  young  baby's.  "What  did  you  call  me 
off  for?"  he  sputtered. 

"I  don't  see  where  you'd  have  come  out  in  an  argument,  and 
you  certainly  couldn't  have  licked  him." 

They  turned  aside  at  the  cemetery  to  wait  until  the  sun  went 
down.  It  was  unfenced,  unsodded,  and  a  wagon  trail  ran 
through  the  middle,  bisecting  the  square.  On  one  side  were 
the  French  graves,  with  white  crosses;  on  the  other  side  the 
German  graves,  with  black  crosses.  Poppies  and  cornflowers 
ran  over  them.  The  Americans  strolled  about,  reading  the 
names.  Here  and  there  the  soldier's  photograph  was  nailed 
upon  his  cross,  left  by  some  comrade  to  perpetuate  his  memory 
a  little  longer. 

The  birds,  that  always  came  to  life  at  dusk  and  dawn,  began 
to  sing,  flying  home  from  somewhere.  Claude  and  Hicks  sat 


394  One  of  Ours 


down  between  the  mounds  and  began  to  smoke  while  the  sun 
dropped.  Lines  of  dead  trees  marked  the  red  west.  This 
was  a  dreary  stretch  of  country,  even  to  boys  brought  up  on 
the  flat  prairie.  They  smoked  in  silence,  meditating  and  waiting 
for  night.  On  a  cross  at  their  feet  the  inscription  read  merely : 
Soldat  Inconnu,  Mori  pour  La  France. 

A  very  good  epitaph,  Claude  was  thinking.  Most  of  the 
boys  who  fell  in  this  war  were  unknown,  even  to  themselves. 
They  were  too  young.  They  died  and  took  their  secret  with 
them,' —  what  they  were  and  what  they  might  have  been.  The 
name  that  stood  was  La  France.  How  much  that  name  had 
come  to  mean  to  him,  since  he  first  saw  a  shoulder  of  land  bulk 
up  in  the  dawn  from  the  deck  of  the  Anchises.  It  was  a  pleas- 
ant name  to  say  over  in  one's  mind,  where  one  could  make  it 
as  passionately  nasal  as  one  pleased  and  never  blush. 

Hicks,  too,  had  been  lost  in  his  reflections.  Now  he  broke 
the  silence.  "Somehow,  Lieutenant,  fmortf  seems  deader  than 
'dead.'  It  has  a  coffinish  sound.  And  over  there  they're  all 
'tod'  and  it's  all  the  same  damned  silly  thing.  Look  at  them 
set  out  here,  black  and  white,  like  a  checkerboard.  The  next 
question  is,  who  put  'em  here,  and  what's  the  good  of  it  ?'* 

"Search  me,"  the  other  murmured  absently. 

Hicks  rolled  another  cigarette  and  sat  smoking  it,  his  plump 
face  wrinkled  with  the  gravity  and  labour  of  his  cerebration. 
"Well,"  he  brought  out  at  last,  "we'd  better  hike.  This  after- 
glow will  hang  on  for  an  hour, —  always  does,  over  here." 

"I  suppose  we  had."  They  rose  to  go.  The  white  crosses 
were  now  violet,  and  the  black  ones  had  altogether  melted  in 
the  shadow.  Behind  the  dead  trees  in  the  west,  a  long  smear 
of  red  still  burned.  To  the  north,  the  guns  were  tuning  up  with 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On'     39$ 

a  deep  thunder.  "Somebody's  getting  peppered  up  there.  Do 
owls  always  hoot  in  graveyards  ?" 

"Just  what  I  was  wondering,  Lieutenant.  It's  a  peaceful 
spot,  otherwise.  Good-night,  boys,"  said  Hicks  kindly,  as  they 
left  the  graves  behind  them. 

They  were  soon  finding  their  way  among  shellholes,  and 
jumping  trench-tops  in  the  dark, —  beginning  to  feel  cheer- 
ful at  getting  back  to  their  chums  and  their  own  little  group. 
Hicks  broke  out  and  told  Claude  how  he  and  Dell  Able  meant 
to  go  into  business  together  when  they  got  home;  were  going 
to  open  a  garage  and  automobile-repair  shop.  Under  their 
talk,  in  the  minds  of  both,  that  lonely  spot  lingered,  and  the 
legend :  Soldat  Inconnu,  Mort  pour  La  France. 


XI 

AFTER  four  days'  rest  in  the  rear,  the  Battalion  went 
to  the  front  again  in  new  country,  about  ten  kilo- 
meters east  of  the  trench  they  had  relieved  before. 
One  morning  Colonel  Scott  sent  for  Claude  and  Gerhardt  and 
spread  his  maps  out  on  the  table. 

"We  are  going  to  clean  them  out  there  in  F  6  tonight,  and 
straighten  our  line.  The  thing  that  bothers  us  is  that  little 
village  stuck  up  on  the  hill,  where  the  enemy  machine  guns 
have  a  strong  position.  I  want  to  get  them  out  of  there  be- 
fore the  Battalion  goes  over.  We  can't  spare  too  many  men, 
and  I  don't  like  to  send  out  more  officers  than  I  can  help;  it 
won't  do  to  reduce  the  Battalion  for  the  major  operation. 
Do  you  think  you  two  boys  could  manage  it  with  a  hundred 
men?  The  point  is,  you  will  have  to  be  out  and  back  before 
our  artillery  begins  at  three  o'clock." 

Under  the  hill  where  the  village  stood,  ran  a  deep  ravine, 
and  from  this  ravine  a  twisting  water  course  wound  up  the 
hillside.  By  climbing  this  gully,  the  raiders  should  be  able 
to  fall  on  the  machine  gunners  from  the  rear  and  surprise 
them.  But  first  they  must  get  across  the  open  stretch,  nearly 
one  and  a  half  kilometers  wide,  between  the  American  line 
and  the  ravine,  without  attracting  attention.  It  was  raining 
now,  and  they  could  safely  count  on  a  dark  night. 

The  night  came  on  black  enough.  The  Company  crossed 
the  open  stretch  without  provoking  fire,  and  slipped  into  the 
ravine  to  wait  for  the  hour  of  attack.  A  young  doctor,  a  Penn- 

396 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     397 

sylvanian,  lately  attached  to  the  staff,  had  volunteered  to 
come  with  them,  and  he  arranged  a  dressing  station  at  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine,  where  the  stretchers  were  left.  They 
were  to  pick  up  their  wounded  on  the  way  back.  Anything 
left  in  that  area  would  be  exposed  to  the  artillery  fire  later 
on. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  men  began  to  ascend  the  water-course, 
creeping  through  pools  and  little  waterfalls,  making  a  con- 
tinuous spludgy  sound,  like  pigs  rubbing  against  the  sty. 
Claude,  with  the  head  of  the  column,  was  just  pulling  out  of 
the  gully  on  the  hillside  above  the  village,  when  a  flare  went 
up,  and  a  volley  of  fire  broke  from  the  brush  on  the  up-hill 
side  of  the  water-course;  machine  guns,  opening  on  the  ex- 
posed line  crawling  below.  The  Hun  had  been  warned  that 
the  Americans  were  crossing  the  plain  and  had  anticipated 
their  way  of  approach.  The  men  in  the  gully  were  trapped; 
they  could  not  retaliate  with  effect,  and  the  bullets  from  the 
Maxims  bounded  on  the  rocks  about  them  like  hail.  Gerhardt 
ran  along  the  edge  of  the  line,  urging  the  men  not  to  fall  back 
and  double  on  themselves,  but  to  break  out  of  the  gully  on 
the  down-hill  side  and  scatter. 

Claude,  with  his  group,  started  back.  "Go  into  the  brush 
and  get  'em!  Our  fellows  have  got  no  chance  down  there. 
Grenades  while  they  last,  then  bayonets.  Pull  your  plugs 
and  don't  hold  on  too  long." 

They  were  already  on  the  run,  charging  the  brush.  The 
Hun  gunners  knew  the  hill  like  a  book,  and  when  the  bombs 
began  bursting  among  them,  they  took  to  trails  and  burrows. 
"Don't  follow  them  off  into  the  rocks,"  Claude  kept  calling. 
"Straight  ahead !  Clear  everything  to  the  ravine." 

As  the  German  gunners  made  for  cover,  the  firing  into  the 


398  One  of  Ours 


gully  stopped,  and  the  arrested  column  poured  up  the  steep 
defile  after  Gerhardt. 

Claude  and  his  party  found  themselves  back  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  at  the  edge  of  the  ravine  from  which  they  had  started. 
Heavy  firing  on  the  hill  above  told  them  the  rest  of  the  men 
had  got  through.  The  quickest  way  back  to  the  scene  of  action 
was  by  the  same  water-course  they  had  climbed  before.  They 
dropped  into  it  and  started  up.  Claude,  at  the  rear,  felt  the 
ground  rise  under  him,  and  he  was  swept  with  a  mountain  of 
earth  and  rock  down  into  the  ravine. 

He  never  knew  whether  he  lost  consciousness  or  not.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  went  on  having  continuous  sensations. 
The  first,  was  that  of  being  blown  to  pieces;  of  swelling  to 
an  enormous  size  under  intolerable  pressure,  and  then  burst- 
ing. Next  he  felt  himself  shrink  and  tingle,  like  a  frost-bitten 
body  thawing  out.  Then  he  swelled  again,  and  burst.  This 
was  repeated,  he  didn't  know  how  often.  He  soon  realized 
that  he  was  lying  under  a  great  weight  of  earth; — his  body, 
not  his  head.  He  felt  rain  falling  on  his  face.  His  left 
hand  was  free,  and  still  attached  to  his  arm.  He  moved 
it  cautiously  to  his  face.  He  seemed  to  be  bleeding  from 
the  nose  and  ears.  Now  he  began  to  wonder  where  he  was 
hurt;  he  felt  as  if  he  were  full  of  shell  splinters.  Everything 
was  buried  but  his  head  and  left  shoulder.  A  voice  was  calling 
from  somewhere  below. 

"Are  any  of  you  fellows  alive?" 

Claude  closed  his  eyes  against  the  rain  beating  in  his  face. 
The  same  voice  came  again,  with  a  note  of  patient  despair. 

"If  there's  anybody  left  alive  in  this  hole,  won't  he  speak 
up?  I'm  badly  hurt  myself." 

That  must  be  the  new  doctor;  wasn't  his  dressing  station 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     399 

somewhere  down  here?  Hurt,  he  said.  Claude  tried  to  move 
his  legs  a  little.  Perhaps,  if  he  could  get  out  from  under  the 
dirt,  he  might  hold  together  long  enough  to  reach  the  doctor. 
He  began  to  wriggle  and  pull.  The  wet  earth  sucked  at  him ; 
it  was  painful  business.  He  braced  himself  with  his  elbows, 
but  kept  slipping  back. 

"I'm  the  only  one  left,  then?"  said  the  mournful  voice  below. 

At  last  Claude  worked  himself  out  of  his  burrow,  but  he  was 
unable  to  stand.  Every  time  he  tried  to  stand,  he  got  faint  and 
seemed  to  burst  again.  Something  was  the  matter  with  his 
right  ankle,  too  —  he  couldn't  bear  his  weight  on  it.  Perhaps 
he  had  been  too  near  the  shell  to  be  hit;  he  had  heard 
the  boys  tell  of  such  cases.  It  had  exploded  under  his  feet  and 
swept  him  down  into  the  ravine,  but  hadn't  left  any  metal  in 
his  body.  If  it  had  put  anything  into  him,  it  would  have  put 
so  much  that  he  wouldn't  be  sitting  here  speculating.  He  began 
to  crawl  down  the  slope  on  all  fours.  "Is  that  the  Doctor? 
Where  are  you?" 

"Here,  on  a  stretcher.  They  shelled  us.  Who  are  you? 
Our  fellows  got  up,  didn't  they?" 

"I  guess  most  of  them  did.     What  happened  back  here?" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  my  fault,"  the  voice  said  sadly.  "I  used  my 
flash  light,  and  that  must  have  given  them  the  range.  They 
put  three  or  four  shells  right  on  top  of  us.  The  fellows  that 
got  hurt  in  the  gully  kept  stringing  back  here,  and  I  couldn't  do 
anything  in  the  dark.  I  had  to  have  a  light  to  do  anything. 
I  just  finished  putting  on  a  Johnson  splint  when  the  first  shell 
came.  I  guess  they're  all  done  for  now." 

"How  many  were  there  ?" 

"Fourteen,  I  think.  Some  of  them  weren't  much  hurt. 
They'd  all  be  alive,  if  I  hadn't  come  out  with  you." 


400  One  of  Ours 


"Who  were  they?  But  you  don't  know  our  names  yet,  do 
you?  You  didn't  see  Lieutenant  Gerhardt  among  them?" 

"Don't  think  so." 

"Nor  Sergeant  Hicks,  the  fat  fellow  ?" 

"Don't  think  so." 

"Where  are  you  hurt  ?" 

"Abdominal.  I  can't  tell  anything  without  a  light.  I  lost 
my  flash  light.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  it  could  make 
trouble ;  it's  one  I  use  at  home,  when  the  babies  are  sick,"  the 
doctor  murmured. 

Claude  tried  to  strike  a  match,  with  no  success.  "Wait  a 
minute,  where's  your  helmet  ?"  He  took  off  his  metal  hat,  held 
it  over  the  doctor,  and  managed  to  strike  a  light  underneath  it. 
The  wounded  man  had  already  loosened  his  trousers,  and  now 
he  pulled  up  his  bloody  shirt.  His  groin  and  abdomen  were 
torn  on  the  left  side.  The  wound,  and  the  stretcher  on  which 
he  lay,  supported  a  mass  of  dark,  coagulated  blood  that  looked 
like  a  great  cow's  liver. 

"I  guess  I've  got  mine,"  the  Doctor  murmured  as  the  match 
went  out. 

Claude  struck  another.  "Oh,  that  can't  be!  Our  fellows 
will  be  back  pretty  soon,  and  we  can  do  something  for  you." 
"No  use,  Lieutenant.  Do  you  suppose  you  could  strip  a  coat 
off  one  of  those  poor  fellows?  I  feel  the  cold  terribly  in  my 
intestines.  I  had  a  bottle  of  French  brandy,  but  I  suppose  it's 
buried." 

Claude  stripped  off  his  own  coat,  which  was  warm  on  the 
inside,  and  began   feeling  about  in  the  mud  for  the  brandy. 
He  wondered  why  the  poor  man  wasn't  screaming  with  pain. 
The  firing  on  the  hill  had  ceased,  except  for  the  occasional 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     401 

click  of  a  Maxim,  off  in  the  rocks  somewhere.  His  watch 
said  12:10;  could  anything  have  miscarried  up  there? 

Suddenly,  voices  above,  a  clatter  of  boots  on  the  shale.  He 
began  shouting  to  them. 

"Coming,  coming !"  He  knew  the  voice.  Gerhardt  and  his 
rifles  ran  down  into  the  ravine  with  a  bunch  of  prisoners. 
Claude  called  to  them  to  be  careful.  "Don't  strike  a  light! 
They've  been  shelling  down  here." 

"All  right  are  you,  Wheeler?    Where  are  the  wounded?" 

"There  aren't  any  but  the  Doctor  and  me.  Get  us  out  of 
here  quick.  I'm  all  right,  but  I  can't  walk." 

They  put  Claude  on  a  stretcher  and  sent  him  ahead.  Four 
big  Germans  carried  him,  and  they  were  prodded  to  a  lope  by 
Hicks  and  Dell  Able.  Four  of  their  own  men  took  up  the 
doctor,  and  Gerhardt  walked  beside  him.  In  spite  of  their 
care,  the  motion  started  the  blood  again  and  tore  away  the  clots 
that  had  formed  over  his  wounds.  He  began  to  vomit  blood 
and  to  strangle.  The  men  put  the  stretcher  down.  Gerhardt 
lifted  the  Doctor's  head.  "It's  over,"  he  said  presently.  "Bet- 
ter make  the  best  time  you  can." 

They  picked  up  their  load  again.  "Them  that  are  carrying 
him  now  won't  jolt  him,"  said  Oscar,  the  pious  Swede. 

B  Company  lost  nineteen  men  in  the  raid.  Two  days  later 
the  Company  went  off  on  a  ten-day  leave.  Claude's  sprained 
ankle  was  twice  its  natural  size,  but  to  avoid  being  sent  to  the 
hospital  he  had  to  march  to  the  railhead.  Sergeant  Hicks  got 
him  a  giant  shoe  he  found  stuck  on  the  barbed  wire  entangle- 
ment. Claude  and  Gerhardt  were  going  off  on  their  leave  to- 
gether. 


XII 

A  RAINY  autumn  night;  Papa  Joubert  sat  reading  his 
paper.     He  heard  a  heavy  pounding  on  his  garden 
gate.     Kicking  off  his  slippers,  he  put  on  the  wooden 
sabots  he   kept   for   mud,   shuffled  across   the   dripping  gar- 
den,  and  opened   the   door   into   the   dark   street.     Two   tall 
figures  with  rifles  and  kits  confronted  him.     In  a  moment  he 
began  embracing  them,  calling  to  his  wife : 

"Nom  de  diable,  Maman,  c'est  David,  David  et  Claude,  tons 
les  deux!" 

Sorry-looking  soldiers  they  appeared  when  they  stood  in  the 
candle-light, —  plastered  with  clay,  their  metal  hats  shining 
like  copper  bowls,  their  clothes  dripping  pools  of  water  upon 
the  flags  of  the  kitchen  floor.  Mme.  Joubert  kissed  their  wet 
cheeks,  and  Monsieur,  now  that  he  could  see  them,  embraced 
them  again.  Whence  had  they  come,  and  how  had  it  fared 
with  them,  up  there  ?  Very  well,  as  anybody  could  see.  What 
did  they  want  first, —  supper,  perhaps  ?  Their  room  was  always 
ready  for  them;  and  the  clothes  they  had  left  were  in  the  big 
chest. 

David  explained  that  their  shirts  had  not  once  been  dry  for 
four  days;  and  what  they  most  desired  was  to  be  dry  and  to 
be  clean.  Old  Martha,  already  in  bed,  was  routed  out  to 
heat  water.  M.  Joubert  carried  the  big  washtub  upstairs. 
Tomorrow  for  conversation,  he  said;  tonight  for  repose.  The 
boys  followed  him  and  began  to  peel  off  their  wet  uniforms, 

402 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     403 

leaving  them  in  two  sodden  piles  on-  the  floor.  There  was  one 
bath  for  both,  and  they  threw  up  a  coin  to  decide  which  should 
get  into  the  warm  water  first.  M.  Joubert,  seeing  Claude's  fat 
ankle  strapped  up  in  adhesive  bandages,  began  to  chuckle.  "Oh, 
I  see  the  Boche  made  you  dance  up  there !" 

When  they  were  clad  in  clean  pyjamas  out  of  the  chest, 
Papa  Joubert  carried  their  shirts  and  socks  down  for  Martha 
to  wash.  He  returned  with  the  big  meat  platter,  on  which  was 
an  omelette  made  of  twelve  eggs  and  stuffed  with  bacon  and 
fried  potatdes.  Mme.  Joubert  brought  the  three-story  earthen 
coffee-pot  to  the  door  and  called,  "Bon  appctit!"  The  host 
poured  the  coffee  and  cut  up  the  loaf  with  his  clasp  knife.  He 
sat  down  to  watch  them  eat.  How  had  they  found  things  up 
there,  anyway?  The  Boches  polite  and  agreeable  as  usual? 
Finally,  when  there  was  not  a  crumb  of  anything  left,  he 
poured  for  each  a  little  glass  of  brandy,  "pour  aider  la  digest- 
ion," and  wished  them  good-night.  He  took  the  candle  with 
him. 

Perfect  bliss,  Claude  reflected,  as  the  chill  of  the  sheets  grew 
warm  around  his  body,  and  he  sniffed  in  the  pillow  the  old 
smell  of  lavender.  To  be  so  warm,  so  dry,  so  clean,  so  be- 
loved !  The  journey  down,  reviewed  from  here,  seemed  beauti- 
ful. As  soon  as  they  had  got  out  of  the  region  of  martyred 
trees,  they  found  the  land  of  France  turning  gold.  All  along 
the  river  valleys  the  poplars  and  cottonwoods  had  changed 
from  green  to  yellow, —  evenly  coloured,  looking  like  candle- 
flames  in  the  mist  and  rain.  Across  the  fields,  along  the  hori- 
zon they  ran,  like  torches  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  all 
the  willows  by  the  little  streams  had  become  silver.  The  vine- 
yards were  green  still,  thickly  spotted  with  curly,  blood-red 
branches.  It  all  flashed  back  beside  his  pillow  in  the  dark : 


404  One  of  Ours 


this  beautiful  land,  this  beautiful  people,  this  beautiful  om- 
elette; gold  poplars,  blue-green  vineyards,  wet,  scarlet  vine- 
leaves,  rain  dripping  into  the  court,  fragrant  darkness  .  .  . 
sleep,  stronger  than  all. 


XIII 


THE  woodland  path  was  deep  in  leaves.  Claude  and 
David  were  lying  on  the  dry,  springy  heather  among 
the  flint  boulders.  Gerhardt,  with  his  Stetson  over  his 
eyes,  was  presumably  asleep.  They  were  having  fine  weather 
for  their  holiday.  The  forest  rose  about  this  open  glade  like 
an  amphitheatre,  in  golden  terraces  of  horsechestnut  and  beech. 
The  big  nuts  dropped  velvety  and  brown,  as  if  they  had  been 
soaked  in  oil,  and  disappeared  in  the  dry  leaves  below.  Little 
black  yew  trees,  that  had  not  been  visible  in  the  green  of  sum- 
mer, stood  out  among  the  curly  yellow  brakes.  Through  the 
grey  netting  of  the  beech  twigs,  stiff  holly  bushes  glittered. 

It  was  the  Wheeler  way  to  dread  false  happiness,  to  feel 
cowardly  about  being  fooled.  Since  he  had  come  back,  Claude 
had  more  than  once  wondered  whether  he  took  too  much  for 
granted  and  felt  more  at  home  here  than  he  had  any  right  to 
feel.  The  Americans  were  prone,  he  had  observed,  to  make 
themselves  very  much  at  home,  to  mistake  good  manners  for 
•good-will.  He  had  no  right  to  doubt  the  affection  of  the 
Jouberts,  however;  that  was  genuine  and  personal, —  not  a 
smooth  surface  under  which  almost  any  shade  of  scorn  might 
lie  and  laugh  .  .  .  was  not,  in  short,  the  treacherous  "French 
politeness"  by  which  one  must  not  let  oneself  be  taken  in. 
Merely  having  seen  the  season  change  in  a  country  gave  one  the 
sense  of  having  been  there  for  a  long  time.  And,  anyway,  he 
wasn't  a  tourist.  He  was  here  on  legitimate  business. 

Claude's  sprained  ankle  was  still  badly  swollen.  Madame 

405 


406  One  of  Ours 


Joubert  was  sure  he  ought  not  to  move  about  on  it  at  all,  begged 
him  to  sit  in  the  garden  all  day  and  nurse  it.  But  the  surgeon 
at  the  front  had  told  him  that  if  he  once  stopped  walking,  he 
would  have  to  go  to  the  hospital.  So,  with  the  help  of  his 
host's  best  holly-wood  cane,  he  limped  out  into  the  forest  every 
day.  This  afternoon  he  was  tempted  to  go  still  farther.  Ma- 
dame Joubert  had  told  him  about  some  caves  at  the  other  end 
of  the  wood,  underground  chambers  where  the  country  people 
had  gone  to  live  in  times  of  great  misery,  long  ago,  in  the  Eng- 
lish wars.  The  English  wars ;  he  could  not  remember  just  how 
far  back  they  were, —  but  long  enough  to  make  one  feel  com- 
fortable. As  for  him,  perhaps  he  would  never  go  home  at 
all.  Perhaps,  when  this  great  affair  was  over,  he  would  buy  a 
little  farm  and  stay  here  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  That  was 
a  project  he  liked  to  play  with.  There  was  no  chance  for  the 
kind  of  life  he  wanted  at  home,  where  people  were  always 
buying  and  selling,  building  and  pulling  down.  He  had  begun 
to  believe  that  the  Americans  were  a  people  of  shallow  emotions. 
That  was  the  way  Gerhardt  had  put  it  once ;  and  if  it  was  true, 
there  was  no  cure  for  it.  Life  was  so  short  that  it  meant  noth- 
ing at  all  unless  it  were  continually  reinforced  by  something  that 
endured;  unless  the  shadows  of  individual  existence  came  and 
went  against  a  background  that  held  together.  While  he 
was  absorbed  in  his  day  dream  of  farming  in  France,  his 
companion  stirred  and  rolled  over  on  his  elbow. 

"You  know  we  are  to  join  the  Battalion  at  A .     They'll 

be  living  like  kings  there.  Hicks  will  get  so  fat  he'll  drop  over 
on  the  march.  Headquarters  must  have  something  particularly 
nasty  in  mind ;  the  infantry  is  always  fed  up  before  a  slaughter. 
But  I've  been  thinking ;  I  have  some  old  friends  at  A .  Sup- 
pose we  go  on  there  a  day  early,  and  get  them  to  take  us  in? 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     407 

It's  a  fine  old  place,  and  I  ought  to  go  to  see  them.  The  son 
was  a  fellow  student  of  mine  at  the  Conservatoire.  He  was 
killed  the  second  winter  of  the  war.  I  used  to  go  up  there  for 
the  holidays  with  him ;  I  would  like  to  see  his  mother  and  sister 
again.  You've  no  objection?" 

Claude  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  lay  squinting  off  at  the 
beech  trees,  without  moving.  "You  always  avoid  that  subject 
with  me,  don't  you  ?"  he  said  presently. 

"What  subject?" 

"Oh,  anything  to  do  with  the  Conservatoire,  or  your  profes- 
sion." 

"I  haven't  any  profession  at  present.  I'll  never  go  back  to 
the  violin." 

"You  mean  you  couldn't  make  up  for  the  time  you'll  lose?" 

Gerhardt  settled  his  back  against  a  rock  and  got  out  his 
pipe.  "That  would  be  difficult;  but  other  things  would  be 
harder.  I've  lost  much  more  than  time." 

"Couldn't  you  have  got  exemption,  one  way  or  another?" 

"I  might  have.  My  friends  wanted  to  take  it  up  and  make 
a  test  case  of  me.  But  I  couldn't  stand  for  it.  I  didn't  feel 
I  was  a  good  enough  violinist  to  admit  that  I  wasn't  a  man. 
I  often  wish  I  had  been  in  Paris  that  summer  when  the  war 
broke  out;  then  I  would  have  gone  into  the  French  army  on 
the  first  impulse,  with  the  other  students,  and  it  would  have 
been  better." 

David  paused  and  sat  puffing  at  his  pipe.  Just  then  a  soft 
movement  stirred  the  brakes  on  the  hillside.  A  little  barefoot 
girl  stood  there,  looking  about.  She  had  heard  voices,  but  at 
first  did  not  see  the  uniforms  that  blended  with  the  yellow  and 
brown  of  the  wood.  Then  she  saw  the  sun  shining  on  two 
heads;  one  square,  and  amber  in  colour, —  the  other  reddish 


408  One  of  Ours 


bronze,  long  and  .narrow.  She  took  their  friendliness  for 
granted  and  came  down  the  hill,  stopping  now  and  again  to  pick 
up  shiny  horsechestnuts  and  pop  them  into  a  sack  she  was 
dragging.  David  called  to  her  and  asked  her  whether  the  nuts 
were  good  to  eat. 

"Oh,  non!"  she  exclaimed,  her  face  expressing  the  liveliest 
terror,  "pour  Us  cochons!"  These  inexperienced  Americans 
might  eat  almost  anything.  The  boys  laughed  and  gave  her  some 
pennies,  "pour  les  cochons  aussi"  She  stole  about  the  edge  of 
the  wood,  stirring  among  the  leaves  for  nuts,  and  watching 
the  two  soldiers. 

Gerhardt  knocked  out  his  pipe  and  began  to  fill  it  again. 
"I  went  home  to  see  my  mother  in  May,  of  1914.  I  wasn't 
here  when  the  war  broke  out.  The  Conservatoire  closed  at 
once,  so  I  arranged  a  concert  tour  in  the  States  that  winter, 
and  did  very  well.  That  was  before  all  the  little  Russians 
went  over,  and  the  field  wasn't  so  crowded.  I  had  a  second 
season,  and  that  went  well.  But  I  was  getting  more  nervous 
all  the  time ;  I  was  only  half  there."  He  smoked  thoughtfully, 
sitting  with  folded  arms,  as  if  he  were  going  over  a  succession 
of  events  or  states  of  feeling.  "When  my  number  was  drawn,  I 
reported  to  see  what  I  could  do  about  getting  out;  I  took  a 
look  at  the  other  fellows  who  were  trying  to  squirm,  and 
chucked  it.  I've  never  been  sorry.  Not  long  afterward,  my 
violin  was  smashed,  and  my  career  seemed  to  go  along  with  it." 

Claude  asked  him  what  he  meant. 

"While  I  was  at  Camp  Dix,  I  had  to  play  at  one  of  the  enter- 
tainments. My  violin,  a  Stradivarius,  was  in  a  vault  in  New 
York.  I  didn't  need  it  for  that  concert,  any  more  than  I  need 
it  at  this  minute;  yet  I  went  to  town  and  brought  it  out.  I 
was  taking  it  up  from  the  station  in  a  military  car,  and  a 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     409 

drunken  taxi  driver  ran  into  us.  I  wasn't  hurt,  but  the  violin, 
lying  across  my  knees,  was  smashed  into  a  thousand  pieces. 
I  didn't  know  what  it  meant  then ;  but  since,  I've  seen  so  many 
beautiful  old  things  smashed  .  .  .  I've  become  a  fatalist." 

Claude  watched  his  brooding  head  against  the  grey  flint  rock. 

"You  ought  to  have  kept  out  of  the  whole  thing.  Any  army 
man  would  say  so." 

David's  head  went  back  against  the  boulder,  and  he  threw 
one  of  the,  chestnuts  lightly  into  the  air.  "Oh,  one  violinist 
more  or  less  doesn't  matter!  But  who  is  ever  going  back  to 
anything?  That's  what  I  want  to  know!" 

Claude  felt  guilty;  as  if  David  must  have  guessed  what 
apostasy  had  been  going  on  in  his  own  mind  this  afternoon. 
"You  don't  believe  we  are  going  to  get  out  of  this  war  what 
we  went  in  for,  do  you  ?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"Absolutely  not,"  the  other  replied  with  cool  indifference. 

"Then  I  certainly  don't  see  what  you're  here  for !" 

"Because  in  1917  I  was  twenty-four  years  old,  and  able  to 
bear  arms.  The  war  was  put  up  to  our  generation.  I  don't 
know  what  for;  the  sins  of  our  fathers,  probably.  Certainly 
not  to  make  the  world  safe  for  Democracy,  or  any  rhetoric  of 
that  sort.  When  I  was  doing  stretcher  work,  I  had  to  tell 
myself  over  and  over  that  nothing  would  come  of  it,  but  that 
it  had  to  be.  Sometimes,  though,  I  think  something  must.  .  .  . 
Nothing  we  expect,  but  something  unforeseen."  He  paused  and 
shut  his  eyes.  "You  remember  in  the  old  mythology  tales  how, 
when  the  sons  of  the  gods  were  born,  the  mothers  always  died 
in  agony?  Maybe  it's  only  Semele  I'm  thinking  of.  At  any 
rate,  I've  sometimes  wondered  whether  the  young  men  of  our 
time  had  to  die  to  bring  a  new  idea  into  the  world  .  .  .  some- 
thing Olympian.  I'd  like  to  know.  I  think  I  shall  know. 


410  One  of  Ours 


Since  I've  been  over  here  this  time,  I've  come  to  believe  in  im- 
mortality. Do  you?" 

Claude  was  confused  by  this  quiet  question.  "I  hardly 
know.  I've  never  been  able  to  make  up  my  mind." 

"Oh,  don't  bother  about  it!  If  it  comes  to  you,  it  comes. 
You  don't  have  to  go  after  it.  I  arrived  at  it  in  quite  the  same 
way  I  used  to  get  things  in  art, —  knowing  them  and  living  on 
them  before  I  understood  them.  Such  ideas  used  to  seem  child- 
ish to  me."  Gerhardt  sprang  up.  "Now,  have  I  told  you  what 
you  want  to  know  about  my  case  ?"  He  looked  down  at  Claude 
with  a  curious  glimmer  of  amusement  and  affection.  "I'm 
going  to  stretch  my  legs.  It's  four  o'clock." 

He  disappeared  among  the  red  pine  stems,  where  the  sun- 
light made  a  rose-coloured  lake,  as  it  used  to  do  in  the  summer 
...  as  it  would  do  in  all  the  years  to  come,  when  they  were 
not  there  to  see  it,  Claude  was  thinking.  He  pulled  his  hat 
over  his  eyes  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  little  girl  on  the  edge  of  the  beechwood  left  her  sack 
and  stole  quietly  down  the  hill.  Sitting  in  the  heather  and 
drawing  her  feet  up  under  her,  she  stayed  still  for  a  long  time, 
and  regarded  with  curiosity  the  relaxed,  deep-breathing  body 
of  the  American  soldier. 

The  next  day  was  Claude's  twenty-fifth  birthday,  and  in 
honour  of  that  event  Papa  Joubert  produced  a  bottle  of  old 
Burgundy  from  his  cellar,  one  of  a  few  dozens  he  had  laid 
in  for  great  occasions  when  he  was  a  young  man. 

During  that  week  of  idleness  at  Madame  Joubert's,  Claude 
often  thought  that  the  period  of  happy  "youth,"  about  which 
his  old  friend  Mrs.  Erlich  used  to  talk,  and  which  he  had  never 
experienced,  was  being  made  up  to  him  now.  He  was  having 


''Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     411 

his  youth  in  France.  He  knew  that  nothing  like  this  would 
ever  come  again;  the  fields  and  woods  would  .never  again  be 
laced  over  with  this  hazy  enchantment.  As  he  came  up  the 
village  street  in  the  purple  evening,  the  smell  of  wood-smoke 
from  the  chimneys  went  to  his  head  like  a  narcotic,  opened 
the  pores  of  his  skin,  and  sometimes  made  the  tears  come  to 
his  eyes.  Life  had  after  all  turned  out  well  for  him,  and  every- 
thing had  a  noble  significance.  The  nervous  tension  in  which 
he  had  lived  for  years  now  seemed  incredible  to  him  .  .  . 
absurd  and  childish,  when  he  thought  of  it  at  all.  He  did  not 
torture  himself  with  recollections.  He  was  beginning  over 
again. 

One  night  he  dreamed  that  he  was  at  home;  out  in  the 
ploughed  fields,  where  he  could  see  nothing  but  the  furrowed 
brown  earth,  stretching  from  horizon  to  horizon.  Up  and 
down  it  moved  a  boy,  with  a  plough  and  two  horses.  At  first 
he  thought  it  was  his  brother  Ralph ;  but  on  coming  nearer,  he 
saw  it  was  himself, —  and  he  was  full  of  fear  for  this  boy. 
Poor  Claude,  he  would  never,  never  get  away ;  he  was  going  to 
miss  everything !  While  he  was  struggling  to  speak  to  Claude, 
and  warn  him,  he  awoke. 

In  the  years  when  he  went  to  school  in  Lincoln,  he  was 
always  hunting  for  some  one  whom  he  could  admire  without 
reservations;  some  one  he  could  envy,  emulate,  wish  to  be. 
Now  he  believed  that  even  then  he.  must  have  had  some  faint 
image  of  a  man  like  Gerhardt  in  his  mind.  It  was  only  in  war 
times  that  their  paths  would  have  been  likely  to  cross ;  or  that 
they  would  have  had  anything  to  do  together  .  .  .  any  of  the 
common  interests  that  make  men  friends. 


XIV 

GERHARDT  and  Claude  Wheeler  alighted  from  a  taxi 
before  the  open  gates  of  a  square-roofed,  solid-looking 
house,  where  all  the  shutters  on  the  front  were  closed, 
and  the  tops  of  many  trees  showed  above  the  garden  wall. 
They  crossed  a  paved  court  and  rang  at  the  door.  An  old  valet 
admitted  the  young  men,  and  took  them  through  a  wide  hall 
to  the  salon,  which  opened  on  the  garden.  Madame  and 
Mademoiselle  would  be  down  very  soon.  David  went  to  one 
of  the  long  windows  and  looked  out.  "They  have  kept  it  up, 
in  spite  of  everything.  It  was  always  lovely  here." 

The  garden  was  spacious, —  like  a  little  park.  On  one  side 
was  a  tennis  court,  on  the  other  a  fountain,  with  a  pool  and 
water-lilies.  The  north  wall  was  hidden  by  ancient  yews;  on 
the  south  two  rows  of  plane  trees,  cut  square,  made  a  long 
arbour.  At  the  back  of  the  garden  there  were  fine  old  lindens. 
The  gravel  walks  wound  about  beds  of  gorgeous  autumn  flow- 
ers; in  the  rose  garden,  small  white  roses  were  still  blooming, 
though  the  leaves  were  already  red. 

Two  ladies  entered  the  drawing-room.  The  mother  was 
short,  plump,  and  rosy,  with  strong,  rather  masculine  features 
and  yellowish  white  hair.  The  tears  flashed  into  her  eyes  as 
David  bent  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  she  embraced  him  and  touched 
both  his  cheeks  with  her  lips. 

"Et  vous,  vous  aussi!"  she  murmured,  touching  the  coat 
of  his  uniform  with  her  fingers.  There  was  but  a  moment 
of  softness.  She  gathered  herself  up  like  an  old  general, 

412 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     413 

Claude  thought,  as  he  stood  watching  the  group  from  the  win- 
dow, drew  her  daughter  forward,  and  asked  David  whether 
he  recognized  the  little  girl  with  whom  he  used  to  play. 
Mademoiselle  Claire  was  not  at  all  like  her  mother;  slender, 
dark,  dressed  in  a  white  costume  de  tennis  and  an  apple  green 
hat  with  black  ribbons,  she  looked  very  modern  and  casual 
and  unconcerned.  She  was  already  telling  David  she  was  glad 
he  had  arrived  early,  as  now  they  would  be  able  to  have  a  game 
of  tennis  before  tea.  Maman  would  bring  her  knitting  to  the 
garden  and  watch  them.  This  last  suggestion  relieved  Claude's 
apprehension  that  he  might  be  left  alone  with  his  hostess. 
When  David  called  him  and  presented  him  to  the  ladies,  Mile. 
Claire  gave  him  a  quick  handshake,  and  said  she  would  be 
very  glad  to  try  him  out  on  the  court  as  soon  as  she  had  beaten 
David.  They  would  find  tennis  shoes  in  their  room, —  a  col- 
lection of  shoes,  for  the  feet  of  all  nations ;  her  brother's,  some 
that  his  Russian  friend  had  forgotten  when  he  hurried  off  to 
be  mobilized,  and  a  pair  lately  left  by  an  English  officer  who 
was  quartered  on  them.  She  and  her  mother  would  wait  in 
the  garden.  She  rang  for  the  old  valet. 

The  Americans  found  themselves  in  a  large  room  upstairs, 
where  two  modern  iron  beds  stood  out  conspicuous  among 
heavy  mahogany  bureaus  and  desks  and  dressing-tables,  stuffed 
chairs  and  velvet  carpets  and  dull  red  brocade  window  hang- 
ings. David  went  at  once  into  the  little  dressing-room 
and  began  to  array  himself  for  the  tennis  court.  Two 
suits  of  flannels  and  a  row  of  soft  shirts  hung  there  on  the 
wall. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  change  ?"  he  asked,  noticing  that  Claude 
stood  stiff  and  unbending  by  the  window,  looking  down  into  the 
garden. 


414  One  of  Ours 


"Why  should  I  ?"  said  Claude  scornfully.  "I  don't  play  ten- 
nis. I  never  had  a  racket  in  my  hand." 

"Too  bad.  She  used  to  play  very  well,  though  she  was  only 
a  youngster  then."  Gerhardt  was  regarding  his  legs  in  trous- 
ers two  inches  too  short  for  him.  "How  everything  has 
changed,  and  yet  how  everything  is  still  the  same!  It's  like 
coming  back  to  places  in  dreams." 

"They  don't  give  you  much  time  to  dream,  I  should  say!" 
Claude  remarked. 

"Fortunately !" 

"Explain  to  the  girl  that  I  don't  play,  will  you?  I'll  be 
down  later." 

"As  you  like." 

Claude  stood  in  the  window,  watching  Gerhardt's  bare  head 
and  Mile.  Claire's  green  hat  and  long  brown  arm  go  bounding 
about  over  the  court. 

When  Gerhardt  came  to  change  before  tea,  he  found  his 
fellow  officer  standing  before  his  bag,  which  was  open,  but 
not  unpacked. 

"What's  the  matter?     Feeling  shellshock  again?" 

"Not  exactly."  Claude  bit  his  lip.  "The  fact  is,  Dave,  I 
don't  feel  just  comfortable  here.  Oh,  the  people  are  all  right! 
But  I'm  out  of  place.  I'm  going  to  pull  out  and  get  a  billet 
somewhere  else,  and  let  you  visit  your  friends  in  peace.  Why 
should  I  be  here  ?  These  people  don't  keep  a  hotel." 

"They  very  nearly  do,  from  what  they've  been  telling  me. 
They've  had  a  string  of  Scotch  and  English  quartered  on  them. 
They  like  it,  too, —  or  have  the  good  manners  to  pretend  they 
do.  Of  course,  you'll  do  as  you  like,  but  you'll  hurt  their 
feelings  and  put  me  in  an  awkward  position.  To  be  frank,  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  go  away  without  being  distinctly  rude." 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     415 

Claude  stood  looking  down  at  the  contents  of  his  bag  in  an 
irresolute  attitude.  Catching  a  glimpse  of  his  face  in  one  of 
the  big  mirrors,  Gerhardt  saw  that  he  looked  perplexed  and 
miserable.  His  flash  of  temper  died,  and  he  put  his  hand  lightly 
on  his  friend's  shoulder. 

"Come  on,  Claude!  This  is  too  absurd.  You  don't  even 
have  to  dress,  thanks  to  your  uniform, — and  you  don't  have  to 
talk,  since  you're  not  supposed  to  know  the  language.  I 
thought  you'd  like  coming  here.  These  people  have  had  an 
awfully  rough  time;  can't  you  admire  their  pluck?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do!  It's  awkward  for  me,  though."  Claude 
pulled  off  his  coat  and  began  to  brush  his  hair  vigorously.  "I 
guess  I've  always  been  more  afraid  of  the  French  than  of  the 
Germans.  It  takes  courage  to  stay,  you  understand.  I  want 
to  run." 

"But  why?    What  makes  you  want  to?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !  Something  in  the  house,  in  the  atmos- 
phere." 

"Something  disagreeable?" 

"No.     Something  agreeable." 

David  laughed.     "Oh,  you'll  get  over  that!" 

They  had  tea  in  the  garden,  English  fashion  • —  English  tea, 
too,  Mile.  Claire  informed  them,  left  by  the  English  officers. 

At  dinner  a  third  member  of  the  family  was  introduced,  a 
little  boy  with  a  cropped  head  and  big  black  eyes.  He  sat  on 
Claude's  left,  quiet  and  shy  in  his  velvet  jacket,  though  he 
followed  the  conversation  eagerly,  especially  when  it  touched 
upon  his  brother  Rene,  killed  at  Verdun  in  the  second  winter 
of  the  war.  The  mother  and  sister  talked  about  him  as  if  he 
were  living,  about  his  letters  and  his  plans,  and  his  friends  at 
the  Conservatoire  and  in  the  Army. 


416  One  of  Ours 


Mile.  Claire  told  Gerhardt  news  of  all  the  girl  students  he 
had  known  in  Paris :  how  this  one  was  singing  for  the  soldiers ; 
another,  when  she  was  nursing  in  a  hospital  which  was  bombed 
in  an  air  raid,  had  carried  twenty  wounded  men  out  of  the  burn- 
ing building,  one  after  another,  on  her  back,  like  sacks  of  flour. 
Alice,  the  dancer,  had  gone  into  the  English  Red  Cross  and 
learned  English.  Odette  had  married  a  New  Zealander,  an 
officer  who  was  said  to  be  a  cannibal;  it  was  well  known  that 
his  tribe  had  eaten  two  Auvergnat  missionaries.  There  was  a 
great  deal  more  that  Claude  could  not  understand,  but  he  got 
enough  to  see  that  for  these  women  the  war  was  France,  the 
war  was  life,  and  everything  that  went  into  it.  To  be  alive, 
to  be  conscious  and  have  one's  faculties,  was  to  be  in  the  war. 

After  dinner,  when  they  went  into  the  salon,  Madame  Fleury 
asked  David  whether  he  would  like  to  see  Rene's  violin  again, 
and  nodded  to  the  little  boy.  He  slipped  away  and  returned 
carrying  the  case,  which  he  placed  on  the  table.  He  opened  it 
carefully  and  took  off  the  velvet  cloth,  as  if  this  was  his  peculiar 
office,  then  handed  the  instrument  to  Gerhardt. 

David  turned  it  over  under  the  candles,  telling  Madame 
Fleury  that  he  would  have  known  it  anywhere,  Rene's  wonder- 
ful Amati,  almost  too  exquisite  in  tone  for  the  concert  hall, 
like  a  woman  who  is  too  beautiful  for  the  stage.  The  family 
stood  round  and  listened  to  his  praise  with  evident  satisfaction. 
Madame  Fleury  told  him  that  Lucien  was  tres  serieux  with  his 
music,  that  his  master  was  well  pleased  with  him,  and  when  his 
hand  was  a  little  larger  he  would  be  allowed  to  play  upon  Rene's 
violin.  Claude  watched  the  little  boy  as  he  stood  looking  at 
the  instrument  in  David's  hands ;  in  each  of  his  big  black  eyes 
a  candle  flame  was  reflected,  as  if  some  steady  fire  were  actually 
burning  there. 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     417 

"What  is  it,  Lucien  ?"  his  mother  asked. 

"If  Monsieur  David  would  be  so  good  as  to  play  before  I 
must  go  to  bed — "  he  murmured  entreatingly. 

"But,  Lucien,  I  am  a  soldier  now.  I  have  not  worked*  at 
all  for  two  years.  The  Amati  would  think  it  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  a  Boche." 

Lucien  smiled.  "Oh,  no !  It  is  too  intelligent  for  that.  A 
little,  please,"  and  he  sat  down  on  a  footstool  before  the  sofa 
in  confident  anticipation. 

Mile.  Claire  went  to  the  piano.  David  frowned  and  began 
to  tune  the  violin.  Madame  Fleury  called  the  old  servant  and 
told  him  to  light  the  sticks  that  lay  in  the  fireplace.  She  took 
the  arm-chair  at  the  right  of  the  hearth  and  motioned  Claude  to 
a  seat  on  the  left.  The  little  boy  kept  his  stool  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room.  Mile.  Claire  began  the  orchestral  introduction 
to  the  Saint-Saens  concerto. 

"Oh,  not  that !"  David  lifted  his  chin  and  looked  at  her  in 
perplexity. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  played  on,  her  shoulders  bent  for- 
ward. Lucien  drew  his  knees  up  under  his  chin  and  shivered. 
When  the  time  came,  the  violin  made  its  entrance.  David  had 
pu-t  it  back  under  his  chin  mechanically,  and  the  instrument 
broke  into  that  suppressed,  bitter  melody. 

They  played  for  a  Jong  while.  At  last  David  stopped  and 
wiped  his  forehead.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  anything  with  the 
third  movement,  really." 

"Nor  can  I.  But  that  was  the  last  thing  Rene  played  on  it, 
the  night  before  he  went  away,  after  his  last  leave."  She  be- 
gan again,  and  David  followed.  Madame  Fleury  sat  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  looking  into  the  fire.  Claude,  his  lips  compressed, 
his  hands  on  his  knees,  was  watching  his  friend's  back.  The 


418  One  of  Ours 


music  was  a  part  of  his  own  confused  emotions.  He  was  torn 
between  generous  admiration,  and  bitter,  bitter  envy.  What 
would  it  mean  to  be  able  to  do  anything  as  well  as  that,  to  have 
a  hand  capable  of  delicacy  and  precision  and  power?  If  he 
had  been  taught  to  do  anything  at  all,  he  would  not  be  sitting 
here  tonight  a  wooden  thing  amongst  living  people.  He  felt 
that  a  man  might  have  been  made  of  him,  but  nobody  had  taken 
the  trouble  to  do  it;  tongue-tied,  foot-tied,  hand-tied.  If  one 
were  born  into  this  world  like  a  bear  cub  or  a  bull  calf,  one 
could  only  paw  and  upset  things,  break  and  destroy,  all  one's 
life. 

Gerhardt  wrapped  the  violin  up  in  its  cloth.  The  little  boy 
thanked  him  and  carried  it  away.  Madame  Fleury  and  her 
daughter  wished  their  guests  good-night. 

David  said  he  was  warm,  and  suggested  going  into  the  garden 
to  smoke  before  they  went  to  bed.  He  opened  one  of  the  long 
windows  and  they  stepped  out  on  the  terrace.  Dry  leaves 
were  rustling  down  on  the  walks;  the  yew  trees  made  a  solid 
wall,  blacker  than  the  darkness.  The  fountain  must  have 
caught  the  starlight;  it  was  the  only  shining  thing, —  a  little 
clear  column  of  twinkling  silver.  The  boys  strolled  in  silence 
to  the  end  of  the  walk. 

"I  guess  you'll  go  back  to  your  profession,  all  right,"  Claude 
remarked,  in  the  unnatural  tone  in  which  people  sometimes 
speak  of  things  they  know  nothing  about. 

"Not  I.  Of  course,  I  had  to  play  for  them.  Music  has 
always  been  like  a  religion  in  this  house.  Listen,"  he  put  up 
his  hand ;  far  away  the  regular  pulsation  of  the  big  guns  sounded 
through  the  still  night.  "That's  all  that  matters  now.  It  has 
killed  everything  else." 

"I  don't  believe  it."     Claude  stopped  for  a  moment  by  the 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     419 

edge  of  the  fountain,  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts.  "I  don't 
believe  it  has  killed  anything.  It  has  only  scattered  things." 
He  glanced  about  hurriedly  at  the  sleeping  house,  the  sleeping 
garden,  the  clear,  starry  sky  not  very  far  overhead.  "It's  men 
like  you  that  get  the  worst  of  it,"  he  broke  out.  "But  as  for 
me,  I  never  knew  there  was  anything  worth  living  for,  till  this 
war  came  on.  Before  that,  the  world  seemed  like  a  business 
proposition." 

"You'll  admit  it's  a  costly  way  of  providing  adventure  for 
the  young,"  said  David  drily. 

"Maybe  so;  all  the  same  .  .  ." 

Claude  pursued  the  argument  to  himself  long  after  they  were 
in  their  luxurious  beds  and  David  was  asleep.  No  battlefield 
or  shattered  country  he  had  seen  was  as  ugly  as  this  world 
would  be  if  men  like  his  brother  Bayliss  controlled  it  altogether. 
Until  the  war  broke  out,  he  had  supposed  they  did  control  it; 
his  boyhood  had  been  clouded  and  enervated  by  that  belief. 
The  Prussians  had  believed  it,  too,  apparently.  But  the  event 
had  shown  that  there  were  a  great  many  people  left  who  cared 
about  something  else. 

The  intervals  of  the  distant  artillery  fire  grew  shorter,  as  if 
the  big  guns  were  tuning  up,  choking  to  get  something  out. 
Claude  sat  up  in  his  bed  and  listened.  The  sound  of  the  guns 
had  from  the  first  been  pleasant  to  him,  had  given  him  a  feeling 
of  confidence  and  safety;  tonight  he  knew  why.  What  they 
said  was,  that  men  could  still  die  for  an  idea ;  and  would  burn 
all  they  had  made  to  keep  their  dreams.  He  knew  the  future 
of  the  world  was  safe;  the  careful  planners  would  never  be 
able  to  put  it  into  a  straight- jacket, —  cunning  and  prudence 
would  never  have  it  to  themselves.  Why,  that  little  boy  down- 
stairs, with  the  candlelight  in  his  eyes,  when  it  came  to  the  last 


420  One  of  Ours 


cry,  as  they  said,  could  "carry  on"  for  ever !  Ideals  were  not 
archaic  things,  beautiful  and  impotent;  they  were  the  real 
sources  of  power  among  men.  As  long  as  that  was  true,  and 
now  he  knew  it  was  true  —  he  had  come  all  this  way  to  find 
out  —  he  had  no  quarrel  with  Destiny.  Nor  did  he  envy 
David.  He  would  give  his  own  adventure  for  no  man's.  On 
the  edge  of  sleep  it  seemed  to  glimmer,  like  the  clear  column  of 
the  fountain,  like  the  new  moon, —  alluring,  half-averted,  the 
bright  face  of  danger. 


XV 

WHEN  Claude  and  David  rejoined  their  Battalion 
on  the  2Oth  of  September,  the  end  of  the  war  looked 
as  far  away  as  ever.  The  collapse  of  Bulgaria  was 
unknown  to  the  American  army,  and  their  acquaintance  with 
European  affairs  was  so  slight  that  this  would  have  meant  very 
little  to  them  had  they  heard  of  it.  The  German  army  still  held 
the  north  and  east  of  France,  and  no  one  could  say  how  much 
vitality  was  left  in  that  sprawling  body. 

The  Battalion  entrained  at  Arras.  Lieutenant  Colonel  Scott 
had  orders  to  proceed  to  the  railhead,  and  then  advance  on  foot 
into  the  Argonne. 

The  cars  were  crowded,  and  the  railway  journey  was  long 
and  fatiguing.  They  detrained  at  night,  in  the  rain,  at  what  the 
men  said  seemed  to  be  the  jumping-off  place.  There  was  no 
town,  and  the  railway  station  had  been  bombed  the  day  before, 
by  an  air  fleet  out  to  explode  artillery  ammunition.  A  mound 
of  brick,  and  holes  full  of  water  told  where  it  had  been.  The 
Colonel  sent  Claude  out  with  a  patrol  to  find  some  place  for  the 
men  to  sleep.  The  patrol  came  upon  a  field  of  strawstacks, 
and  at  the  end  of  it  found  a  black  farmhouse. 

Claude  went  up  and  hammered  on  the  door.  Silence.  He 
kept  hammering  and  calling,  "The  Americans  are  here!"  A 
shutter  opened.  The  farmer  stuck  his  head  out  and  demanded 
gruffly  what  was  wanted;  "What  now?" 

Claude  explained  in  his  best  French  that  an  American  bat- 

421 


422  One  of  Ours 


talion  had  just  come  in ;  might  they  sleep  in  his  field  if  they  did 
not  destroy  his  stacks?" 

"Sure/'  replied  the  farmer,  and  shut  the  window. 

That  one  word,  coming  out  of  the  dark  in  such  an  unprom- 
ising place,  had  a  cheering  effect  upon  the  patrol,  and  upon  the 
men,  when  it  was  repeated  to  them.  "Sure,  eh?"  They  kept 
laughing  over  it  as  they  beat  about  the  field  and  dug  into  the 
straw.  Those  who  couldn't  burrow  into  a  stack  lay  down  in  the 
muddy  stubble.  They  were  asleep  before  they  could  feel  sorry 
for  themselves. 

The  farmer  came  out  to  offer  his  stable  to  the  officers,  and 
to  beg  them  not  on  any  account  to  make  a  light.  They  had 
never  been  bothered  here  by  air  raids  until  yesterday,  and  it 
must  be  because  the  Americans  were  coming  and  were  sending 
in  ammunition. 

Gerhardt,  who  was  called  to  talk  to  him,  told  the  farmer  the 
Colonel  must  study  his  map,  and  for  that  the  man  took  them 
down  into  the  cellar,  where  the  children  were  asleep.  Before 
he  lay  down  on  the  straw  bed  his  orderly  had  made  for  him, 
the  Colonel  kept  telling  names  and  kilometers  off  on  his  fingers. 
For  officers  like  Colonel  Scott  the  names  of  places  constituted 
one  of  the  real  hardships  of  the  war.  His  mind  worked  slowly, 
but  it  was  always  on  his  job,  and  he  could  go  without  sleep  for 
more  hours  together  than  any  of  his  officers.  Tonight  he  had 
scarcely  lain  down,  when  a  sentinel  brought  in  a  runner  with  a 
message.  The  Colonel  had  to  go  into  the  cellar  again  to  read  it. 
He  was  to  meet  Colonel  Harvey  at  Prince  Joachim  farm,  as 
early  as  possible  tomorrow  morning.  The  runner  would  act 
as  guide. 

The  Colonel  sat  with  his  eye  on  his  watch,  and  interrogated 
the  messenger  about  the  road  and  the  time  it  would  take  to  get 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     423 

over  the  ground.  "What's  Fritz's  temper  up  here,  generally 
speaking?" 

"That's  as  it  happens,  sir.  Sometimes  we  nab  a  night  patrol 
of  a  dozen  or  fifteen  and  send  them  to  the  rear  under  a  one-man 
guard.  Then,  again,  a  little  bunch  of  Heinies  will  fight  like  the 
devil.  They  say  it  depends  on  what  part  of  Germany  they  come 
from ;  the  Bavarians  and  Saxons  are  the  bravest." 

Colonel  Scott  waited  for  an  hour,  and  then  went  about,  shak- 
ing his  sleeping  officers. 

"Yes,  sir."  Captain  Maxey  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  he  had 
been  caught  in  a  disgraceful  act.  He  called  his  sergeants,  and 
they  began  to  beat  the  men  up  out  of  the  strawstacks  and  pud- 
dles. In  half  an  hour  they  were  on  the  road. 

This  was  the  Battalion's  first  march  over  really  bad  roads, 
where  walking  was  a  question  of  pulling  and  balancing.  They 
were  soon  warm,  at  any  rate;  it  kept  them  sweating.  The 
weight  of  their  equipment  was  continually  thrown  in  the  wrong 
place.  Their  wet  clothing  dragged  them  back,  their  packs  got 
twisted  and  cut  into  their  shoulders.  Claude  and  Hicks  began 
wondering  to  each  other  what  it  must  have  been  like  in  the  real 
mud,  up  about  Ypres  and  Paschendael,  two  years  ago.  Hicks 
had  been  training  at  Arras  last  week,  where  a  lot  of  Tommies 
were  "resting"  in  the  same  way,  and  he  had  tales  to  tell. 

The  Battalion  got  to  Joachim  farm  at  nine  o'clock.  Colonel 
Harvey  had  not  yet  come  up,  but  old  Julius  Caesar  was  there 
with  his  engineers,  and  he  had  a  hot  breakfast  ready  for  them. 
At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  they  took  the  road  again,  march- 
ing until  daybreak,  with  short  rests.  During  the  night  they 
captured  two  Hun  patrols,  a  bunch  of  thirty  men.  At  the  halt 
for  breakfast,  the  prisoners  wanted  to  make  themselves  use- 
ful, but  the  cook  said  they  were  so  filthy  the  smell  of  them 


424  One  of  Ours 


would  make  a  stew  go  bad.  They  were  herded  off  by  them- 
selves, a  good  distance  from  the  grub  line. 

It  was  Gerhardt,  of  course,  who  had  to  go  over  and  question 
them.  Claude  felt  sorry  for  the  prisoners;  they  were  so  will- 
ing to  tell  all  they  knew,  and  so  anxious  to  make  themselves 
agreeable;  began  talking  about  their  relatives  in  America,  and 
said  brightly  that  they  themselves  were  going  over  at  once, 
after  the  war  —  seemed  to  have  no  doubt  that  everybody  would 
be  glad  to  see  them ! 

They  begged  Gerhardt  to  be  allowed  to  do  something. 
Couldn't  they  carry  the  officers'  equipment  on  the  march  ?  No, 
they  were  too  buggy;  they  might  relieve  the  sanitary  squad. 
Oh,  that  they  would  gladly  do,  Herr  Officer! 

The  plan  was  to  get  to  Ruprecht  trench  and  take  it  before 
nightfall.  It  was  easy  taking  —  empty  of  everything  but  ver- 
min and  human  discards ;  a  dozen  crippled  and  sick,  left  for 
the  enemy  to  dispose  of,  and  several  half-witted  youths  who 
ought  to  have  been  locked  up  in  some  institution.  Fritz  had 
known  what  it  meant  when  his  patrols  did  not  come  back.  He 
had  evacuated,  leaving  behind  his  hopelessly  diseased,  and  as 
much  filth  as  possible.  The  dugouts  were  fairly  dry,  but  so 
crawling  with  vermin  that  the  Americans  preferred  to  sleep 
in  the  mud,  in  the  open. 

After  supper  the  men  fell  on  their  packs  and  began  to  lighten 
them,  throwing  away  all  that  was  not  necessary,  and  much 
that  was.  Many  of  them  abandoned  the  new  overcoats  that 
had  been  served  out  at  the  railhead;  others  cut  off  the  skirts 
and  made  the  coats  into  ragged  jackets.  Captain  Maxey  was 
horrified  at  these  depredations,  but  the  Colonel  advised  him  to 
shut  his  eyes.  "They've  got  hard  going  before  them;  let 
them  travel  light.  If  they'd  rather  stand  the  cold,  they've  got 
a  right  to  choose." 


XVI 

THE  Battalion  had  twenty-four  hours'  rest  at  Ruprecht 
trench,  and  then  pushed  on  for  four  days  and  nights, 
stealing  trenches,  capturing  patrols,  with  only  a  few 
hours'  sleep, —  snatched  by  the  roadside  while  their  food  was 
being  prepared.  They  pushed  hard  after  a  retiring  foe,  and  al- 
most outran  themselves.  They  did  outrun  their  provisions ;  on 
the  fourth  night,  when  they  fell  upon  a  farm  that  had  been  a 
German  Headquarters,  the  supplies  that  were  to  meet  them 
there  had  not  come  up,  and  they  went  to  bed  supperless. 

This  farmhouse,  for  some  reason  called  by  the  prisoners 
Fran  Hulda  farm,  was  a  nest  of  telephone  wires ;  hundreds  of 
them  ran  out  through  the  walls,  in  all  directions.  The  Colonel 
cut  those  he  could  find,  and  then  put  a  guard  over  the  old 
peasant  who  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the  house,  suspecting 
that  he  was  in  the  pay  of  the  enemy. 

At  last  Colonel  Scott  got  into  the  Headquarters  bed,  large 
and  lumpy, —  the  first  one  he  had  seen  since  he  left  Arras.  He 
had  not  been  asleep  more  than  two  hours,  when  a  runner 
arrived  with  orders  from  the  Regimental  Colonel.  Claude 
was  in  a  bed  in  the  loft,  between  Gerhardt  and  Bruger.  He 
felt  somebody  shaking  him,  but  resolved  that  he  wouldn't  be 
disturbed  and  went  on  placidly  sleeping.  Then  somebody 
pulled  his  hair, —  so  hard  that  he  sat  up.  Captain  Maxey  was 
standing  over  the  bed. 

"Come  along,  boys.  Orders  from  Regimental  Headquarters. 

425 


426  One  of  Ours 


The  Battalion  is  to  split  here.  Our  Company  is  to  go  on  four 
kilometers  tonight,  and  take  the  town  of  Beaufort." 

Claude  rose.  "The  men  are  pretty  well  beat  out,  Captain 
Maxey,  and  they  had  no  supper." 

"That  can't  be  helped.  Tell  them  we  are  to  be  in  Beaufort 
for  breakfast." 

Claude  and  Gerhardt  went  out  to  the  barn  and  roused  Hicks 
and  his  pal,  Dell  Able.  The  men  were  asleep  in  dry  straw,  for 
the  first  time  in  ten  days.  They  were  completely  worn  out, 
lost  to  time  and  place.  Many  of  them  were  already  four 
thousand  miles  away,  scattered  among  little  towns  and  farms  on 
the  prairie.  They  were  a  miserable  looking  lot  as  they  got  to- 
gether, stumbling  about  in  the  dark. 

After  the  Colonel  had  gone  over  the  map  with  Captain 
Maxey,  he  came  out  and  saw  the  Company  assembled.  He 
wasn't  going  with  them,  he  told  them,  but  he  expected  them 
to  give  a  good  account  of  themselves.  Once  in  Beaufort,  they 
would  have  a  week's  rest;  sleep  under  cover,  and  live  among 
people  for  awhile. 

The  men  took  the  road,  some  with  their  eyes  shut,  trying 
to  make  believe  they  were  still  asleep,  trying  to  have  their 
agreeable  dreams  over  again,  as  they  marched.  They  did  not 
really  waken  up  until  the  advance  challenged  a  Hun  patrol, 
and  sent  it  back  to  the  Colonel  under  a  one-man  guard.  When 
they  had  advanced  two  kilometers,  they  found  the  bridge 
blown  up.  Claude  and  Hicks  went  in  one  direction  to  look 
for  a  ford,  Bruger  and  Dell  Able  in  the  other,  and  the  men 
lay  down  by  the  roadside  and  slept  heavily.  Just  at  dawn 
they  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  silent  and  still. 

Captain  Maxey  had  no  information  as  to  how  many  Germans 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     427 

might  be  left  in  the  town.  They  had  occupied  it  ever  since 
the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  had  used  it  as  a  rest  camp. 
There  had  never  been  any  fighting  there. 

At  the  first  house  on  the  road,  the  Captain  stopped  and 
pounded.  No  answer. 

"We  are  Americans,  and  must  see  the  people  of  the  house. 
If  you  don't  open,  we  must  break  the  door." 

A  woman's  voice  called ;  "There  is  nobody  here.  Go  away, 
please,  and  take  your  men  away.  I  am  sick." 

The  Captain  called  Gerhardt,  who  began  to  explain  and  re- 
assure through  the  door.  It  opened  a  little  way,  and  an  old 
woman  in  a  nightcap  peeped  out.  An  old  man  hovered  be- 
hind her.  She  gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  officers,  not  under- 
standing. These  were  the  first  soldiers  of  the  Allies  she  had 
ever  seen.  She  had  heard  the  Germans  talk  about  Americans, 
but  thought  it  was  one  of  their  lies,  she  said.  Once  convinced, 
she  let  the  officers  come  in  and  replied  to  their  questions. 

No,  there  were  no  Bodies  left  in  her  house.  They  had 
got  orders  to  leave  day  before  yesterday,  and  had  blown  up 
the  bridge.  They  were  concentrating  somewhere  to  the  east. 
She  didn't  know  how  many  were  still  in  the  village,  nor  where 
they  were,  but  she  could  tell  the  Captain  where  they  had  been. 
Triumphantly  she  brought  out  a  map  of  the  town< — lost,  she 
said  with  a  meaning  smile,  by  a  German  officer  —  on  which  the 
billets  were  marked. 

With  this  to  guide  them,  Captain  Maxey  and  his  men  went 
on  up  the  street.  They  took  eight  prisoners  in  one  cellar, 
seventeen  in  another.  When  the  villagers  saw  the  prisoners 
bunched  together  in  the  square,  they  came  out  of  their  houses 
and  gave  information.  This  cleaning  up,  Bert  Fuller  re- 


428  One  of  Ours 


marked,  was  like  taking  fish  from  the  Platte  River  when  the 
water  was  low, —  simply  pailing  them  out !  There  was  no  sport 
in  it. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  officers  were  standing  together  in  the 
square  before  the  church,  checking  off  on  the  map  the  houses 
that  had  been  searched.  The  men  were  drinking  coffee,  and 
eating  fresh  bread  from  a  baker's  shop.  The  square  was  full 
of  people  who  had  come  out  to  see  for  themselves.  Some 
believed  that  deliverance  had  come,  and  others  shook  their 
heads  and  held  back,  suspecting  another  trick.  A  crowd  of 
children  were  running  about,  making  friends  with  the  soldiers. 
One  little  girl  with  yellow  curls  and  a  clean  white  dress  had 
attached  herself  to  Hicks,  and  was  eating  chocolate  out  of  his 
pocket.  Gerhardt  was  bargaining  with  the  baker  for  another 
baking  of  bread.  The  sun  was  shining,  for  a  change, —  every- 
thing was  looking  cheerful.  This  village  seemed  to  be  swarm- 
ing with  girls ;  some  of  them  were  pretty,  and  all  were  friendly. 
The  men  who  had  looked  so  haggard  and  forlorn  when  dawn 
overtook  them  at  the  edge  of  the  town,  began  squaring  their 
shoulders  and  throwing  out  their  chests.  They  were  dirty 
and  mud-plastered,  but  as  Claude  remarked  to  the  Captain,  they 
actually  looked  like  fresh  men. 

Suddenly  a  shot  rang  out  above  the  chatter,  and  an  old 
woman  in  a  white  cap  screamed  and  tumbled  over  on  the  pave- 
ment,—  rolled  about,  kicking  indecorously  with  both  hands 
and  feet.  A  second  crack, —  the  little  girl  who  stood  beside 
Hicks,  eating  chocolate,  threw  out  her  hands,  ran  a  few  steps, 
and  fell,  blood  and  brains  oozing  out  in  her  yellow  hair.  The 
people  began  screaming  and  running.  The  Americans  looked 
this  way  and  that ;  ready  to  dash,  but  not  knowing  where  to 
go.  Another  shot,  and  Captain  Maxey  fell  on  one  knee, 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     429 

blushed  furiously  and  sprang  up,  only  to  fall  again, —  ashy 
white,  with  the  leg  of  his  trousers  going  red. 

"There  it  is,  to  the  left!"  Hicks  shouted,  pointing.  They 
saw  now.  From  a  closed  house,  some  distance  down  a  street 
off  the  square,  smoke  was  coming.  It  hung  before  one  of 
the  upstairs  windows.  The  Captain's  orderly  dragged  him 
into  a  wineshop.  Claude  and  David,  followed  by  the  men,  ran 
down  the  street  and  broke  in  the  door.  The  two  officers  went 
through  the  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  while  Hicks  and  his  lot 
made  straight  for  an  enclosed  stairway  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
As  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  they  were  met  by  a 
volley  of  rifle  shots,  and  two  of  the  men  tumbled  over.  Four 
Germans  were  stationed  at  the  head  of  the  steps. 

The  Americans  scarcely  knew  whether  their  bullets  or  their 
bayonets  got  to  the  Huns  first;  they  were  not  conscious  of 
going  up,  till  they  were  there.  When  Claude  and  David 
reached  the  landing,  the  squad  were  wiping  their  bayonets, 
and  four  grey  bodies  were  piled  in  the  corner. 

Bert  Fuller  and  Dell  Able  ran  down  the  narrow  hallway 
and  threw  open  the  door  into  the  room  on  the  street.  Two 
shots,  and  Dell  came  back  with  his  jaw  shattered  and  the  blood 
spouting  from  the  left  side  of  his  neck.  Gerhardt  caught  him, 
and  tried  to  close  the  artery  with  his  fingers. 

"How  many  are  in  there,  Bert?"  Claude  called. 

"I  couldn't  see.  Look  out,  sir!  You  can't  get  through 
that  door  more  than  two  at  a  time !" 

The  door  still  stood  open,  at  the  end  of  the  corridor.  Claude 
went  down  the  steps  until  he  could  sight  along  the  floor  of  the 
passage,  into  the  front  room.  The  shutters  were  closed  in  there, 
and  the  sunlight  came  through  the  slats.  In  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  between  the  door  and  the  windows,  stood  a  tall  chest 


430  One  of  Ours 


of  drawers,  with  a  mirror  attached  to  the  top.  In  the  narrow 
space  between  the  bottom  of  this  piece  of  furniture  and  the 
floor,  he  could  see  a  pair  of  boots.  It  was  possible  there  was 
but  one  man  in  the  room,  shooting  from  behind  his  movable 
fort, —  though  there  might  be  others  hidden  in  the  corners. 

"There's  only  one  fellow  in  there,  I  guess.  He's  shooting 
from  behind  a  big  dresser  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Come 
on,  one  of  you,  we'll  have  to  go  in  and  get  him." 

Willy  Katz,  the  Austrian  boy  from  the  Omaha  packing 
house,  stepped  up  and  stood  beside  him. 

"Now,  Willy,  we'll  both  go  in  at  once;  you  jump  to  the 
right,  and  I  to  the  left, —  and  one  of  us  will  jab  him.  He  can't 
shoot  both  ways  at  once.  Are  you  ready  ?  All  right  —  Now  !" 

Claude  thought  he  was  taking  the  more  dangerous  position 
himself,  but  the  German  probably  reasoned  that  the  important 
man  would  be  on  the  right.  As  the  two  Americans  dashed 
through  the  door,  he  fired.  Claude  caught  him  in  the  back  with 
his  bayonet,  under  the  shoulder  blade,  but  Willy  Katz  had  got 
the  bullet  in  his  brain,  through  one  of  his  blue  eyes.  He  fell, 
and  never  stirred.  The  German  officer  fired  his  revolver 
again  as  he  went  down,  shouting  in  English,  English  with  no 
foreign  accent, 

"You  swine,  go  back  to  Chicago!"  Then  he  began  chok- 
ing with  blood. 

Sergeant  Hicks  ran  in  and  shot  the  dying  man  through  the 
temples.  Nobody  stopped  him. 

The  officer  was  a  tall  man,  covered  with  medals  and  orders ; 
must  have  been  very  handsome.  His  linen  and  his  hands  were 
as  white  as  if  he  were  going  to  a  ball.  On  the  dresser  were 
the  files  and  paste  and  buffers  with  which  he  had  kept  his  nails 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     431 

so  pink  and  smooth.  A  ring  with  a  ruby,  beautifully  cut,  was 
on  his  little  finger.  Bert  Fuller  screwed  it  off  and  offered  it 
to  Claude.  He  shook  his  head.  That  English  sentence  had 
unnerved  him.  Bert  held  the  ring  out  to  Hicks,  but  the 
Sergeant  threw  down  his  revolver  and  broke  out : 

"Think  I'd  touch  anything  of  his?  That  beautiful  little 
girl,  and  my  buddy  —  He's  worse  than  dead,  Dell  is,  worse !" 
He  turned  his  back  on  his  comrades  so  that  they  wouldn't  see 
him  cry. 

"Can  I  keep  it  myself,  sir?"  Bert  asked. 

Claude  nodded.  David  had  come  in,  and  was  opening  the 
shutters.  This  officer,  Claude  was  thinking,  was  a  very  differ- 
ent sort  of  being  from  the  poor  prisoners  they  had  been  scoop- 
ing up  like  tadpoles  from  the  cellars.  One  of  the  men  picked 
up  a  gorgeous  silk  dressing  gown  from  the  bed,  another 
pointed  to  a  dressing-case  full  of  hammered  silver.  Gerhardt 
said  it  was  Russian  silver;  this  man  must  have  come  from  the 
Eastern  front.  Bert  Fuller  and  Nifty  Jones  were  going 
through  the  officer's  pockets.  Claude  watched  them,  and 
thought  they  did  about  right.  They  didn't  touch  his  medals; 
but  his  gold  cigarette  case,  and  the  platinum  watch  still  tick- 
ing on  his  wrist, —  he  wouldn't  have  further  need  for  them. 
Around  his  neck,  hung  by  a  delicate  chain,  was  a  miniature 
case,  and  in  it  was  a  painting, —  not,  as  Bert  romantically  hoped 
when  he  opened  it,  of  a  beautiful  woman,  but  of  a  young  man, 
pale  as  snow,  with  blurred  forget-me-not  eyes. 

Claude  studied  it,  wondering.  "It  looks  like  a  poet,  or  some- 
thing. Probably  a  kid  brother,  killed  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war." 

Gerhardt  took  it  and  glanced  at  it  with  a  disdainful  express- 


432  One  of  Ours 


ion.  "Probably.  There,  let  him  keep  it,  Bert."  He  touched 
Claude  on  the  shoulder  to  call  his  attention  to  the  inlay  work 
on  the  handle  of  the  officer's  revolver. 

Claude  noticed  that  David  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  very 
much  pleased  with  him, —  looked,  indeed,  as  if  something  pleas- 
ant had  happened  in  this  room;  where,  God  knew,  nothing 
had;  where,  when  they  turned  round,  a  swarm  of  black  flies 
was  quivering  with  greed  and  delight  over  the  smears  Willy 
Katz'  body  had  left  on  the  floor.  Claude  had  often  observed 
that  when  David  had  an  interesting  idea,  or  a  strong 
twinge  of  recollection,  it  made  him,  for  the  moment,  rather 
heartless.  Just  now  he  felt  that  Gerhardt's  flash  of  high 
spirits  was  in  some  way  connected  with  him.  Was  it  because 
he  had  gone  in  with  Willy?  Had  David  doubted  his  nerve? 


XVII 

WHEN  the  survivors  of  Company  B  are  old  men, 
and  are  telling  over  their  good  days,  they  will  say  to 
each  other,  "Oh,  that  week  we  spent  at  Beaufort !" 
They  will  close  their  eyes  and  see  a  little  village  on  a  low  ridge, 
lost  in  the  forest,  overgrown  with  oak  and  chestnut  and  black 
walnut  .  .  .  buried  in  autumn  colour,  the  streets  drifted  deep 
in  autumn  leaves,  great  branches  interlacing  over  the  roofs  of 
the  houses,  wells  of  cool  water  that  tastes  of  moss  and  tree 
roots.  Up  and  down  those  streets  they  will  see  figures  passing ; 
themselves,  young  and  brown  and  clean-limbed ;  and  com- 
rades, long  dead,  but  still  alive  in  that  far-away  village.  How 
they  will  wish  they  could  tramp  again,  nights  on  days  in  the 
mud  and  rain,  to  drag  sore  feet  into  their  old  billets  at  Beau- 
fort !  To  sink  into  those  wide  feather  beds  and  sleep  the  round 
of  the  clock  while  the  old  women  washed  and  dried  their  clothes 
for  them ;  to  eat  rabbit  stew  and  pommes  f rites  in  the  garden, 
-  rabbit  stew  made  with  red  wine  and  chestnuts.  Oh,  the  days 
that  are  no  more ! 

As  soon  as  Captain  Maxey  and  the  wounded  men  had  been 
started  on  their  long  journey  to  the  rear,  carried  by  the  prison- 
ers, the  whole  company  turned  in  and  slept  for  twelve  hours  — 
all  but  Sergeant  Hicks,  who  sat  in  the  house  off  the  square, 
beside  the  body  of  his  chum. 

The  next  day  the  Americans  came  to  life  as  if  they  were 
new  men,  just  created  in  a  new  world.  And  the  people  of  the 
town  came  to  life  ...  excitement,  change,  something  to  look 

433 


434  One  of  Ours 


forward  to  at  last !  A  new  flag,  le  drapeau  etoile,  floated  along 
with  the  tricolour  in  the  square.  At  sunset  the  soldiers  stood 
in  formation  behind  it  and  sang  "The  Star  Spangled  Banner" 
with  uncovered  heads.  The  old  people  watched  them  from  the 
doorways.  The  Americans  were  the  first  to  bring  "Madelon" 
to  Beaufort.  The  fact  that  the  village  had  never  heard  this 
song,  that  the  children  stood  round  begging  for  it,  "Chantez- 
vous  la  Madelon!"  made  the  soldiers  realize  how  far  and 
how  long  out  of  the  world  these  villagers  had  been.  The  Ger- 
man occupation  was  like  a  deafness  which  nothing  pierced  but 
their  own  arrogant  martial  airs. 

Before  Claude  was  out  of  bed  after  his  first  long  sleep,  a 
runner  arrived  from  Colonel  Scott,  notifying  him  that  he  was 
in  charge  of  the  Company  until  further  orders.  The  German 
prisoners  had  buried  their  own  dead  and  dug  graves  for  the 
Americans  before  they  were  sent  off  to  the  rear.  Claude 
and  David  were  billeted  at  the  edge  of  the  town,  with  the 
woman  who  had  given  Captain  Maxey  his  first  information, 
when  they  marched  in  yesterday  morning.  Their  hostess  told 
them,  at  their  mid-day  breakfast,  that  the  old  dame  who  was 
shot  in  the  square,  and  the  little  girl,  were  to  be  buried  this 
afternoon.  Claude  decided  that  the  Americans  might  as  well 
have  their  funeral  at  the  same  time.  He  thought  he  would  ask 
the  priest  to  say  a  prayer  at  the  graves,  and  he  and  David  set 
off  through  the  brilliant,  rustling  autumn  sunshine  to  find  the 
Cure's  house.  It  was  next  the  church,  with  a  high-walled  gar- 
den behind  it.  Over  the  bell-pull  in  the  outer  wall  was  a  card 
on  which  was  written,  "Tirez  fort." 

The  priest  himself  came  out  to  them,  an  old  man  who  seemed 
weak  like  his  doorbell.  He  stood  in  his  black  cap,  holding  his 
hands  against  his  breast  to  keep  them  from  shaking,  and  looked 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     435 

very  old  indeed, — -broken,  hopeless,  as  if  he  were  sick  of  this 
world  and  done  with  it.  Nowhere  in  France  had  Claude  seen 
a  face  so  sad  as  his.  Yes,  he  would  say  a  prayer.  It  was  bet- 
ter to  have  Christian  burial,  and  they  were  far  from  home,  poor 
fellows !  David  asked  him  whether  the  German  rule  had  been 
very  oppressive,  but  the  old  man  did  not  answer  clearly,  and 
his  hands  began  to  shake  so  uncontrollably  over  his  cassock 
that  they  went  away  to  spare  him  embarrassment. 

"He  seems  a  little  gone  in  the  head,  don't  you  think  ?"  Claude 
remarked. 

"I  suppose  the  war  has  used  him  up.  How  can  he  celebrate 
mass  when  his  hands  quiver  so?"  As  they  crossed  the  church 
steps,  David  touched  Claude's  arm  and  pointed  into  the  square. 
"Look,  every  doughboy  has  a  girl  already !  Some  of  them  have 
trotted  out  fatigue  caps !  I  supposed  they'd  thrown  them  all 
away!" 

Those  who  had  no  caps  stood  with  their  helmets  under  their 
arms,  in  attitudes  of  exaggerated  gallantry,  talking  to  the 
women, —  who  seemed  all  to  have  errands  abroad.  Some  of 
them  let  the  boys  carry  their  baskets.  One  soldier  was  giving 
a  delighted  little  girl  a  ride  on  his  back. 

After  the  funeral  every  man  in  the  Company  found  some 
sympathetic  woman  to  talk  to  about  his  fallen  comrades.  All 
the  garden  flowers  and  bead  wreaths  in  Beaufort  had  been 
carried  out  and  put  on  the  American  graves.  When  the  squad 
fired  over  them  and  the  bugle  sounded,  the  girls  and  their 
mothers  wept.  Poor  Willy  Katz,  for  instance,  could  never 
have  had  such  a  funeral  in  South  Omaha. 

The  next  night  the  soldiers  began  teaching  the  girls  to  dance 
the  "Pas  Seul"  and  the  "Fausse  Trot."  They  had  found  an 
old  violin  in  the  town ;  and  Oscar,  the  Swede,  scraped  away  on 


436  One  of  Ours 


it.  They  danced  every  evening.  Claude  saw  that  a  good  deal 
was  going  on,  and  he  lectured  his  men  at  parade.  But  he  rea- 
lized that  he  might  as  well  scold  at  the  sparrows.  Here  was  a 
village  with  several  hundred  women,  and  only  the  grandmothers 
had  husbands.  All  the  men  were  in  the  army ;  hadn't  even  been 
home  on  leave  since  the  Germans  first  took  the  place.  The 
girls  had  been  shut  up  for  four  years  with  young  men  who  in- 
cessantly coveted  them,  and  whom  they  must  constantly  outwit. 
The  situation  had  been  intolerable  —  and  prolonged.  The 
Americans  found  themselves  in  the  position  of  Adam  in  the 
garden. 

"Did  you  know,  sir,"  said  Bert  Fuller  breathlessly  as  he  over- 
took Claude  in  the  street  after  parade,  "that  these  lovely  girls 
had  to  go  out  in  the  fields  and  work,  raising  things  for  those 
dirty  pigs  to  eat?  Yes,  sir,  had  to  work  in  the  fields,  under 
German  sentinels;  marched  out  in  the  morning  and  back  at 
night  like  convicts !  It's  sure  up  to  us  to  give  them  a  good 
time  now." 

One  couldn't  walk  out  of  an  evening  without  meeting  loiter- 
ing couples  in  the  dusky  streets  and  lanes.  The  boys  had  lost 
all  their  bashfulness  about  trying  to  speak  French.  They  de- 
clared they  could  get  along  in  France  with  three  verbs,  and  all, 
happily,  in  the  first  conjugation:  manger,  aimer,  payer, —  quite 
enough !  They  called  Beaufort  "our  town,"  and  they  were 
called  "our  Americans."  They  were  going  to  come  back  after 
the  war,  and  marry  the  girls,  and  put  in  water-works ! 

"Chcz-moi,  sir!"  Bill  Gates  called  to  Claude,  saluting  with 
a  bloody  hand,  as  he  stood  skinning  rabbits  before  the  door  of 
his  billet.  "Bunny  casualties  are  heavy  in  town  this  week!" 

"You  know,  Wheeler,"  David  remarked  one  morning  as  they 
were  shaving,  "I  think  Maxey  would  come  back  here  on  one  leg 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     437 

if  he  knew  about  these  excursions  into  the  forest  after  mush- 
rooms." 

"Maybe." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  put  a  stop  to  them?" 

"Not  I !"  Claude  jerked,  setting  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
grimly.  "If  the  girls,  or  their  people,  make  complaint  to  me, 
I'll  interfere.  Not  otherwise.  I've  thought  the  matter  over." 

"Oh,  the  girls—"  David  laughed  softly.  "Well,  it's 
something  to  acquire  a  taste  for  mushrooms.  They  don't  get 
them  at  home,  do  they  ?" 

When,  after  eight  days,  the  Americans  had  orders  to  march, 
there  was  mourning  in  every  house.  On  their  last  night  in 
town,  the  officers  received  pressing  invitations  to  the  dance  in 
the  square.  Claude  went  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked  on. 
David  was  dancing  every  dance,  but  Hicks  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  The  poor  fellow  had  been  out  of  everything.  Claude 
went  over  to  the  church  to  see  whether  he  might  be  moping  in 
the  graveyard. 

There,  as  he  walked  about,  Claude  stopped  to  look  at  a  grave 
that  stood  off  by  itself,  under  a  privet  hedge,  with  withered 
leaves  and  a  little  French  flag  on  it.  The  old  woman  with  whom 
they  stayed  had  told  them  the  story  of  this  grave. 

The  Cure's  niece  was  buried  there.  She  was  the  prettiest 
girl  in  Beaufort,  it  seemed,  and  she  had  a  love  affair  with  a 
German  officer  and  disgraced  the  town.  He  was  a  young 
Bavarian,  quartered  with  this  same  old  woman  who  told  them 
the  story,  and  she  said  he  was  a  nice  boy,  handsome  and  gentle, 
and  used  to  sit  up  half  the  night  in  the  garden  with  his  head  in 
his  hands  —  homesick,  lovesick.  He  was  always  after  this 
Marie  Louise ;  never  pressed  her,  but  was  always  there,  grew  up 


438  One  of  Ours 


out  of  the  ground  under  her  feet,  the  old  woman  said.  The 
girl  hated  Germans,  like  all  the  rest,  and  flouted  him.  He  was 
sent  to  the  front.  Then  he  came  back,  sick  and  almost  deaf, 
after  one  of  the  slaughters  at  Verdun,  and  stayed  a  long  while. 
That  spring  a  story  got  about  that  some  woman  met  him  at  night 
in  the  German  graveyard.  They  had  taken  the  land  behind  the 
church  for  their  cemetery,  and  it  joined  the  wall  of  the  Cure's 
garden.  When  the  women  went  out  into  the  fields  to  plant  the 
crops,  Marie  Louise  used  to  slip  away  from  the  others  and 
meet  her  Bavarian  in  the  forest.  The  girls  were  sure  of  it 
now ;  and  they  treated  her  with  disdain.  But  nobody  was  brave 
enough  to  say  anything  to  the  Cure.  One  day,  when  she  was 
with  her  Bavarian  in  the  wood,  she  snatched  up  his  revolver 
from  the  ground  and  shot  herself.  She  was  a  Frenchwoman  at 
heart,  their  hostess  said. 

"And  the  Bavarian?"  Claude  asked  David  later.  The  story 
had  become  so  complicated  he  could  not  follow  it. 

"He  justified  her,  and  promptly.  He  took  the  same  pistol 
and  shot  himself  through  the  temples.  His  orderly,  stationed 
at  the  edge  of  the  thicket  to  keep  watch,  heard  the  first 
shot  and  ran  toward  them.  He  saw  the  officer  take  up  the 
smoking  pistol  and  turn  it  on  himself.  But  the  Kommandant 
couldn't  believe  that  one  of  his  officers  had  so  much  feeling. 
He  held  an  enquete,  dragged  the  girl's  mother  and  uncle  into 
court,  and  tried  to  establish  that  they  were  in  conspiracy  with 
her  to  seduce  and  murder  a  German  officer.  The  orderly 
was  made  to  tell  the  whole  story ;  how  and  where  they  began  to 
meet.  Though  he  wasn't  very  delicate  about  the  details  he 
divulged,  he  stuck  to  his  statement  that  he  saw  Lieutenant 
Miiller  shoot  himself  with  his  own  hand,  and  the  Kommandant 
failed  to  prove  his  case.  The  old  Cure  had  known  nothing  of 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     439 

all  this  until  he  heard  it  aired  in  the  military  court.  Marie 
Louise  had  lived  in  his  house  since  she  was  a  child,  and  was  like 
his  daughter.  He  had  a  stroke  or  something,  and  has  been  like 
this  ever  since.  The  girl's  friends  forgave  her,  and  when  she 
was  buried  off  alone  by  the  hedge,  they  began  to  take  flowers  to 
her  grave.  The  Kommandant  put  up  an  affiche  on  the  hedge, 
forbidding  any  one  to  decorate  the  grave.  Apparently,  nothing 
during  the  German  occupation  stirred  up  more  feeling  than 
poor  Marie  Louise." 

It  would  stir  anybody,  Claude  reflected.  There  was  her 
lonely  little  grave,  the  shadow  of  the  privet  hedge  falling  across 
it.  There,  at  the  foot  of  the  Cure's  garden,  was  the  German 
cemetery,  with  heavy  cement  crosses, —  some  of  them  with  long 
inscriptions;  lines  from  their  poets,  and  couplets  from  old 
hymns.  Lieutenant  Miiller  was  there  somewhere,  probably. 
Strange,  how  their  story  stood  out  in  a  world  of  suffering. 
That  was  a  kind  of  misery  he  hadn't  happened  to  think  of  be- 
fore; but  the  same  thing  must  have  occurred  again  and  again 
in  the  occupied  territory.  He  would  never  forget  the  Cure's 
hands,  his  dim,  suffering  eyes. 

Claude  recognized  David  crossing  the  pavement  in  front  of 
the  church,  and  went  back  to  meet  him. 

"Hello !  I  mistook  you  for  Hicks  at  first.  I  thought  he 
might  be  out  here."  David  sat  down  on  the  steps  and  lit  a 
cigarette. 

"So  did  I.     I  came  out  to  look  for  him." 

"Oh,  I  expect  he's  found  some  shoulder  to  cry  on.  Do  you 
realize,  Claude,  you  and  I  are  the  only  men  in  the  Company 
who  haven't  got  engaged?  Some  of  the  married  men  have 
got  engaged  twice.  It's  a  good  thing  we're  pulling  out,  or  we'd 
have  banns  and  a  bunch  of  christenings  to  look  after." 


440  One  of  Ours 


"All  the  same,"  murmured  Claude,  "I  like  the  women  of  this 
country,  as  far  as  I've  seen  them."  While  they  sat  smoking  in 
silence,  his  mind  went  back  to  the  quiet  scene  he  had  watched 
on  the  steps  of  that  other  church,  on  his  first  night  in  France ; 
the  country  girl  in  the  moonlight,  bending  over  her  sick  soldier. 

When  they  walked  back  across  the  square,  over  the  crack- 
ling leaves,  the  dance  was  breaking  up.  Oscar  was  playing 
"Home,  Sweet  Home,"  for  the  last  waltz. 

"Le  dernier  baiser"  said  David.  "Well,  tomorrow  we'll  be 
gone,  and  the  chances  are  we  won't  come  back  this  way." 


XVIII 

"'W  "IT  TITH  us  it's  always  a  feast  or  a  famine,"  the  men 

%/%/     groaned,   when  they  sat  down  by  the  road  to 

munch  dry  biscuit  at  noon.     They  had  covered 

eighteen  miles  that  morning,  and  had  still  seven  more  to  go. 

They  were  ordered  to  do  the  twenty-five  miles  in  eight  hours. 

Nobody  had  fallen  out  yet,  but  some  of  the  boys  looked  pretty 

well   wilted.     Nifty  Jones   said  he   was  done   for.     Sergeant 

Hicks  was  expostulating  with  the  faint-hearted.     He  knew  that 

if  one  man  fell  out,  a  dozen  would. 

"If  I  can  do  it,  you  can.  It's  worse  on  a  fat  man  like  me. 
This  is  no  march  to  make  a  fuss  about.  Why,  at  Arras  I 
talked  with  a  little  Tommy  from  one  of  those  Pal  Battalions 
that  got  slaughtered  on  the  Somme.  His  battalion  marched 
twenty-five  miles  in  six  hours,  in  the  heat  of  July,  into  certain 
death.  They  were  all  kids  out  of  school,  not  a  man  of  them 
over  five- foot-three,  called  them  the  'Bantams.'  You've 
got  to  hand  it  to  them,  fellows." 

"I'll  hand  anything  to  anybody,  but  I  can't  go  no  farther  on 
these,"  Jones  muttered,  nursing  his  sore  feet. 

"Oh,  you !  We're  going  to  heave  you  onto  the  only  horse  in 
the  Company.  The  officers,  they  can  walk!" 

When  they  got  into  Battalion  lines  there  was  food  ready  for 
them,  but  very  few  wanted  it.  They  drank  and  lay  down  in  the 
bushes.  Claude  went  at  once  to  Headquarters  and  found 
Barclay  Owens,  of  the  Engineers,  with  the  Colonel,  who  was 
smoking  and  studying  his  maps  as  usual. 

441 


442  One  of  Ours 


"Glad  to  see  you,  Wheeler.  Your  men  ought  to  be  in  good 
shape,  after  a  week's  rest.  Let  them  sleep  now.  We've  got 
to  move  out  of  here  before  midnight,  to  relieve  two  Texas  bat- 
talions at  Moltke  trench.  They've  taken  the  trench  with 
heavy  casualties  and  are  beat  out ;  couldn't  hold  it  in  case  of 
counter-attack.  As  it's  an  important  point,  the  enemy  will  try 
to  recover  it.  I  want  to  get  into  position  before  daylight,  so 
he  won't  know  fresh  troops  are  coming  in.  As  ranking  officer, 
you  are  in  charge  of  the  Company." 

"Very  well,  sir.     I'll  do  my  best." 

"I'm  sure  you  will.  Two  machine  gun  teams  are  going  up 
with  us,  and  some  time  tomorrow  a  Missouri  battalion  comes 
up  to  support.  I'd  have  had  you  over  here  before,  but  I  only 
got  my  orders  to  relieve  yesterday.  We  may  have  to  advance 
under  shell  fire.  The  enemy  has  been  putting  a  lot  of  big 
stuff  over;  he  wants  to  cut  off  that  trench." 

Claude  and  David  got  into  a  fresh  shell  hole,  under  the  half- 
burned  scrub,  and  fell  asleep.  They  were  awakened  at  dusk 
by  heavy  artillery  fire  from  the  north. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  Battalion,  after  a  hot  meal,  began  to  ad- 
vance through  almost  impassable  country.  The  guns  must 
have  been  pounding  away  at  the  same  range  for  a  long  while ; 
the  ground  was  worked  and  kneaded  until  it  was  soft  as  dough, 
though  no  rain  had  fallen  for  a  week.  Barclay  Owens  and  his 
engineers  were  throwing  down  a  plank  road  to  get  food  and  the 
ammunition  wagons  across.  Big  shells  were  coming  over  at 
intervals  of  twelve  minutes.  The  intervals  were  so  regular 
that  it  was  quite  possible  to  get  forward  without  damage. 
While  B  Company  was  pulling  through  the  shell  area,  Colonel 
Scott  overtook  them,  on  foot,  his  orderly  leading  his  horse. 

"Know  anything  about  that  light  over  there,  Wheeler?"  he 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     443 

asked.     "Well,  it  oughtn't  to  be  there.     Come  along  and  see." 

The  light  was  a  mere  match-head  down  in  the  ground, — 
Claude  hadn't  noticed  it  before.  He  followed  the  Colonel, 
and  when  they  reached  the  spark  they  found  three  officers  of 
A  Company  crouching  in  a  shell  crater,  covered  with  a  piece  of 
sheet-iron. 

"Put  out  that  light,"  called  the  Colonel  sharply.  "What's 
the  matter,  Captain  Brace  ?" 

A  young  man  rose  quickly.  "I'm  waiting  for  the  water, 
sir.  It's  coming  up  on  mules,  in  petrol  cases,  and  I  don't  want 
to  get  separated  from  it.  The  ground's  so  bad  here  the  drivers 
are  likely  to  get  lost." 

"Don't  wait  more  than  twenty  minutes.  You  must  get 
up  and  take  your  position  on  time,  that's  the  important  thing, 
water  or  no  water." 

As  the  Colonel  and  Claude  hurried  back  to  overtake  the  Com- 
pany, five  big  shells  screamed  over  them  in  rapid  succession. 
"Run,  sir,"  the  orderly  called.  "They're  getting  on  to  us; 
they've  shortened  the  range." 

"That  light  back  there  was  just  enough  to  give  them  an  idea," 
the  Colonel  muttered. 

The  bad  ground  continued  for  about  a  mile,  and  then  the 
advance  reached  Headquarters,  behind  the  eighth  trench  of  the 
great  system  of  trenches.  It  was  an  old  farmhouse  which  the 
Germans  had  made  over  with  reinforced  concrete,  lining  it  with- 
in and  without,  until  the  walls  were  six  feet  thick  and  almost 
shell-proof,  like  a  pill-box.  The  Colonel  sent  his  orderly  to  en- 
quire about  A  Company.  A  young  Lieutenant  came  to  the 
door  of  the  farmhouse. 

"A  Company  is  ready  to  go  into  position,  sir.  I  brought 
them  up." 


444  One  °f  Ours 


"Where  is  Captain  Brace,  Lieutenant?" 

"He  and  both  our  first  lieutenants  were  killed,  Colonel. 
Back  in  that  hole.  A  shell  fell  on  them  not  five  minutes  after 
you  were  talking  to  them." 

"That's  bad.     Any  other  damage?" 

"Yes,  sir.  There  was  a  cook  wagon  struck  at  the  same 
time;  the  first  one  coming  along  Julius  Caesar's  new  road. 
The  driver  was  killed,  and  we  had  to  shoot  the  horses.  Cap- 
tain Owens,  he  near  got  scalded  with  the  stew." 

The  Colonel  called  in  the  officers  one  after  another  and  dis- 
cussed their  positions  with  them. 

"Wheeler,"  he  said  when  Claude's  turn  came,  "you  know 
your  map?  You've  noticed  that  sharp  loop  in  the  front 
trench,  in  H  2; — the  Boar's  Head,  I  believe  they  call  it.  It's 
a  sort  of  spear  point  that  reaches  out  toward  the  enemy,  and 
it  will  be  a  hot  place  to  hold.  If  I  put  your  company  in  there, 
do  you  think  you  can  do  the  Battalion  credit  in  case  of  a 
counter  attack?" 

Claude  said  he  thought  so. 

"It's  the  nastiest  bit  of  the  line  to  hold,  and  you  can  tell 
your  men  I  pay  them  a  compliment  when  I  put  them  there." 

"All  right,  sir.     They'll  appreciate  it." 

The  Colonel  bit  off  the  end  of  a  fresh  cigar.  "They'd  bet- 
ter, by  thunder!  If  they  give  way  and  let  the  Hun  bombers 
in,  it  will  let  down  the  whole  line.  I'll  give  you  two  teams  of 
Georgia  machine  guns  to  put  in  that  point  they  call  the  Boar's 
Snout.  When  the  Missourians  come  up  tomorrow,  they'll  go 
in  to  support  you,  but  until  then  you'll  have  to  take  care  of 
the  loop  yourselves.  I've  got  an  awful  lot  of  trench  to  hold, 
and  I  can't  spare  you  any  more  men." 

The  Texas  men  whom  the  Battalion  came  up  to  relieve  had 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     445 

been  living  for  sixty  hours  on  their  iron  rations,  and  on  what 
they  could  pick  off  the  dead  Huns.  Their  supplies  had  been 
shelled  on  the  way,  and  nothing  had  got  through  to  them. 
When  the  Colonel  took  Claude  and  Gerhardt  forward  to  in- 
spect the  loop  that  B  Company  was  to  hold,  they  found  a 
wallow,  more  like  a  dump  heap  than  a  trench.  The  men  who 
had  taken  the  position  were  almost  too  weak  to  stand.  All 
their  officers  had  been  killed,  and  a  sergeant  was  in  command. 
He  apologized  for  the  condition  of  the  loop. 

"Sorry  to  leave  such  a  mess  for  you  to  clean  up,  sir,  but 
we  got  it  bad  in  here.  He's  been  shelling  us  every  night  since 
we  drove  him  out.  I  couldn't  ask  the  men  to  do  anything 
but  hold  on." 

"That's  all  right.  You  beat  it,  with  your  boys,  quick ! 
My  men  will  hand  you  out  some  grub  as  you  go  back." 

The  battered  defenders  of  the  Boar's  Head  stumbled  past 
them  through  the  darkness  into  the  communication.  When 
the  last  man  had  filed  out,  the  Colonel  sent  for  Barclay 
Owens.  Claude  and  David  tried  to  feel  their  way  about  and 
get  some  idea  of  the  condition  the  place  was  in.  The  stench 
was  the  worst  they  had  yet  encountered,  but  it  was  less  dis- 
gusting than  the  flies ;  when  they  inadvertently  touched  a  dead 
body,  clouds  of  wet,  buzzing  flies  flew  up  into  their  faces, 
into  their  eyes  and  nostrils.  Under  their  feet  the  earth  worked 
and  moved  as  if  boa  constrictors  were  wriggling  down  there  — 
soft  bodies,  lightly  covered.  When  they  had  found  their 
way  up  to  the  Snout  they  came  upon  a  pile  of  corpses,  a  dozen 
or  more,  thrown  one  on  top  of  another  like  sacks  of  flour, 
faintly  discernible  in  the  darkness.  While  the  two  officers 
stood  there,  rumbling,  squirting  sounds  began  to  come  from 
this  heap,  first  from  one  body,  then  from  another  —  gasses, 


446  One  of  Ours 


swelling  in  the  liquefying  entrails  of  the  dead  men.  They 
seemed  to  be  complaining  to  one  another ;  glup,  glwp,  glup. 

The  boys  went  back  to- the  Colonel,  who  was  standing  at  the 
mouth  of  the  communication,  and  told  him  there  was  nothing 
much  to  report,  except  that  the  burying  squad  was  needed 
badly. 

"I  expect!"  The  Colonel  shook  his  head.  When  Barclay 
Owens  arrived,  he  asked  him  what  could  be  done  here  before 
daybreak.  The  doughty  engineer  felt  his  way  about  as  Claude 
and  Gerhardt  had  done;  they  heard  him  coughing,  and  beating 
off  the  flies.  But  when  he  came  back  he  seemed  rather  cheered 
than  discouraged. 

"Give  me  a  gang  to  get  the  casualties  out,  and  with  plenty 
of  quick-lime  and  concrete  I  can  make  this  loop  all  right  in 
four  hours,  sir,"  he  declared. 

"I've  brought  plenty  of  lime,  but  where'll  you  get  your  con- 
crete?" 

"The  Hun  left  about  fifty  sacks  of  it  in  the  cellar,  under 
your  Headquarters.  I  can  do  better,  of  course,  if  I  have  a 
few  hours  more  for  my  concrete  to  dry." 

"Go  ahead,  Captain."  The  Colonel  told  Claude  and  David 
to  bring  their  men  up  to  the  communication  before  light,  and 
hold  them  ready.  "Give  Owen's  cement  a  chance,  but  don't 
let  the  enemy  put  over  any  surprise  on  you." 

The  shelling  began  again  at  daybreak;  it  was  hardest  on 
the  rear  trenches  and  the  three-mile  area  behind.  Evidently 
the  enemy  felt  sure  of  what  he  had  in  Moltke  trench;  he 
wanted  to  cut  off  supplies  and  possible  reinforcements.  The 
Missouri  battalion  did  not  come  up  that  day,  but  before  noon 
a  runner  arrived  from  their  Colonel,  with  information  that  they 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"     447 

were  hiding  in  the  wood.  Five  Boche  planes  had  been  circling 
over  the  wood  since  dawn,  signalling  to  the  enemy  Head- 
quarters back  on  Dauphin  Ridge;  the  Missourians  were  sure 
they  had  avoided  detection  by  lying  close  in  the  under-brush. 
They  would  come  up  in  the  night.  Their  linemen  were  follow- 
ing the  runner,  and  Colonel  Scott  would  be  in  telephone  com- 
munication with  them  in  half  an  hour. 

When  B  Company  moved  into  the  Boar's  Head  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  they  could  truthfully  say  that  the 
prevailing  smell  was  now  that  of  quick-lime.  The  parapet  was 
evenly  built  up,  the  firing  step  had  been  partly  restored, 
and  in  the  Snout  there  were  good  emplacements  for  the  ma- 
chine guns.  Certain  unpleasant  reminders  were  still  to  be 
found  if  one  looked  for  them.  In  the  Snout  a  large  fat  boot 
stuck  stiffly  from  the  side  of  the  trench.  Captain  Owens  ex- 
plained that  the  ground  sounded  hollow  in  there,  and  the  boot 
probably  led  back  into  a  dugout  where  a  lot  of  Hun  bodies  were 
entombed  together.  As  he  was  pressed  for  time,  he  had  thought 
best  not  to  look  for  trouble.  In  one  of  the  curves  of  the  loop, 
just  at  the  top  of  the  earth  wall,  under  the  sand  bags,  a  dark 
hand  reached  out;  the  five  fingers,  well  apart,  looked  like  the 
swollen  roots  of  some  noxious  weed.  Hicks  declared  that 
this  object  was  disgusting,  and  during  the  afternoon  he  made 
Nifty  Jones  and  Oscar  scrape  down  some  earth  and  make  a 
hump  over  the  paw.  But  there  was  shelling  in  the  night,  and 
the  earth  fell  away. 

"Look,"  said  Jones  when  he  wakened  his  Sergeant.  "The 
first  thing  I  seen  when  daylight  come  was  his  old  fingers, 
wigglin'  in  the  breeze.  He  wants  air,  Heinie  does;  he  won't 
stay  covered." 

Hicks  got  up  and  re-buried  the  hand  himself,  but  when  he 


448  One  of  Ours 


came  around  with  Claude  on  inspection,  before  breakfast, 
there  were  the  same  five  fingers  sticking  out  again.  The  Ser- 
geant's forehead  puffed  .up  and  got  red,  and  he  swore  that 
if  he  found  the  man  who  played  dirty  jokes,  he'd  make  him 
eat  this  one. 

The  Colonel  sent  for  Claude  and  Gerhardt  to  come  to  break- 
fast with  him.  He  had  been  talking  by  telephone  with  the 
Missouri  officers  and  had  agreed  that  they  should  stay  back 
in  the  bush  for  the  present.  The  continual  circling  of  planes 
over  the  wood  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  enemy  was  concerned 
about  the  actual  strength  of  Moltke  trench.  It  was  possible 
their  air  scouts  had  seen  the  Texas  men  going  back, —  otherwise, 
why  were  they  holding  off? 

While  the  Colonel  and  the  officers  were  at  breakfast,  a  cor- 
poral brought  in  two  pigeons  he  had  shot  at  dawn.  One  of 
them  carried  a  message  under  its  wing.  The  Colonel  unrolled 
a  strip  of  paper  and  handed  it  to  Gerhardt. 

"Yes,  sir,  it's  in  German,  but  it's  code  stuff.  It's  a  German 
nursery  rhyme.  Those  reconnoitering  planes  must  have 
dropped  scouts  on  our  rear,  and  ttney  are  sending  in  reports. 
Of  course,  they  can  get  more  on  us  than  the  air  men  can. 
Here,  do  you  want  these  birds,  Dick?" 

The  boy  grinned.  "You  bet  I  do,  sir !  I  may  get  a  chance 
to  fry  'em,  later  on." 

After  breakfast  the  Colonel  went  to  inspect  B  Company  in 
the  Boar's  Head.  He  was  especially  pleased  with  the  advan- 
tageous placing  of  the  machine  guns  in  the  Snout.  "I  expect 
you'll  have  a  quiet  day,"  he  said  to  the  men,  "but  I  wouldn't 
like  to  promise  you  a  quiet  night.  You'll  have  to  be  very  steady 
in  here;  if  Fritz  takes  this  loop,  he's  got  us,  you  understand." 

They  had,  indeed,  a  quiet  day.     Some  of  the  men  played 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"       449 

cards,  and  Oscar  read  his  Bible.  The  night,  too,  began  well. 
But  at  four  fifteen  everybody  was  roused  by  the  gas  alarm. 
Gas  shells  came  over  for  exactly  half,  an  hour.  Then  the 
shrapnel  broke  loose ;  not  the  long,  whizzing  scream  of  solitary 
shells,  but  drum-fire,  continuous  and  deafening.  A  hundred 
electrical  storms  seemed  raging  at  once,  in  the  air  and  on  the 
ground.  Balls  of  fire  were  rolling  all  over  the  place.  The 
range  was  a  little  long  for  the  Boar's  Head,  they  were  not 
getting  the  worst  of  it;  but  thirty  yards  back  everything  was 
torn  to  pieces.  Claude  didn't  see  how  anybody  could  be  left 
alive  back  there.  A  single  twister  had  killed  six  of  his  men  at 
the  rear  of  the  loop,  where  they  were  shovelling  to  keep  the 
communication  clear.  Captain  Owens'  neat  earthworks  were 
being  badly  pounded. 

Claude  and  Gerhardt  were  consulting  together  when  the 
smoke  and  darkness  began  to  take  on  the  livid  colour  that 
announced  the  coming  of  daybreak.  A  messenger  ran  in  from 
the  Colonel;  the  Missourians  had  not  yet  come  up,  and  his 
telephone  communication  with  them  was  cut  off.  He  was 
afraid  they  had  got  lost  in  the  bombardment.  "The  Colonel 
says  you  are  to  send  two  men  back  to  bring  them  up;  two 
men  who  can  take  charge  if  they're  stampeded." 

When  the  messenger  shouted  this  order,  Gerhardt  and  Hicks 
looked  at  each  other  quickly,  and  volunteered  to  go. 

Claude  hesitated.  Hicks  and  David  waited  for  no  further 
consent;  they  ran  down  the  communication  and  disappeared. 

Claude  stood  in  the  smoke  that  was  slowly  growing  greyer, 
and  looked  after  them  with  the  deepest  stab  of  despair  he  had 
ever  known.  Only  a  man  who  was  bewildered  and  unfit  to  be 
in  command  of  other  men  would  have  let  his  best  friend  and 
his  best  officer  take  such  a  risk.  He  was  standing  there  under 


45°  One  of  Ours 


shelter,  and  his  two  friends  were  going  back  through  that 
curtain  of  flying  steel,  toward  the  square  from  which  the  lost 
battalion  had  last  reported.  If  he  knew  them,  they  would  not 
lose  time  following  the  maze  of  trenches;  they  were  probably 
even  now  out  on  the  open,  running  straight  through  the  enemy 
barrage,  vaulting  trench  tops. 

Claude  turned  and  went  back  into  the  loop.  Well,  what- 
ever happened,  he  had  worked  with  brave  men.  It  was  worth 
having  lived  in  this  world  to  have  known  such  men.  Soldiers, 
when  they  were  in  a  tight  place,  often  made  secret  proposi- 
tions to  God;  and  now  he  found  himself  offering  terms: 
If  They  would  see  to  it  that  David  came  back,  They  could 
take  the  price  out  of  him.  He  would  pay.  Did  They  under- 
stand ? 

An  hour  dragged  by.  Hard  on  the  nerves,  waiting.  Up 
the  communication  came  a  train  with  ammunition  and 
coffee  for  the  loop.  The  men  thought  Headquarters  did 
pretty  well  to  get  hot  food  to  them  through  that  barrage.  A 
message  came  up  in  the  Colonel's  hand : 

"Be  ready  when  the  barrage  stops." 

Claude  took  this  up  and  showed  it  to  the  machine  gunners  in 
the  Snout.  Turning  back,  he  ran  into  Hicks,  stripped  to  his 
shirt  and  trousers,  as  wet  as  if  he  had  come  out  of  the  river, 
and  splashed  with  blood.  His  hand  was  wrapped  up  in  a  rag. 
He  put  his  mouth  to  Claude's  ear  and  shouted:  "We  found 
them.  They  were  lost.  They're  coming.  Send  word  to  the 
Colonel." 

"Where's  Gerhardt?" 

"He's  coming;  bringing  them  up.     God,  it's  stopped!" 

The  bombardment  ceased  with  a  suddenness  that  was  stupe- 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"        451 

fying.  The  men  in  the  loop  gasped  and  crouched  as  if  they 
were  falling  from  a  height.  The  air,  rolling  black  with  smoke 
and  stifling  with  the  smell  of  gasses  and  burning  powder,  was 
still  as  death.  The  silence  was  like  a  heavy  anaesthetiq. 

Claude  ran  back  to  the  Snout  to  see  that  the  gun  teams  were 
ready.  "Wake  up,  boys !  You  know  why  we're  here !" 

Bert  Fuller,  who  was  up  in  the  look-out,  dropped  back  into 
the  trench  beside  him.  "They're  coming,  sir." 

Claude  gave  the  signal  to  the  machine  guns.  Fire  opened 
all  along  the  loop.  In  a  moment  a  breeze  sprang  up,  and  the 
heavy  smoke  clouds  drifted  to  the  rear.  Mounting  to  the  fire- 
step,  he  peered  over.  The  enemy  was  coming  on  eight  deep, 
on  the  left  of  the  Boar's  Head,  in  long,  waving  lines  that 
reached  out  toward  the  main  trench.  Suddenly  the  advance 
was  checked.  The  files  of  running  men  dropped  behind  a 
wrinkle  in  the  earth  fifty  yards  forward  and  did  not  instantly 
re-appear.  It  struck  Claude  that  they  were  waiting  for  some- 
thing; he  ought  to  be  clever  enough  to  know  for  what,  but  he 
was  not.  The  Colonel's  line  man  came  up  to  him. 

"Headquarters  has  a  runner  from  the  Missourians.  They'll 
be  up  in  twenty  minutes.  The  Colonel  will  put  them  in  here 
at  once.  Till  then  you  must  manage  to  hold." 

"We'll  hold.  Fritz  is  behaving  queerly.  I  don't  understand 
his  tactics  .  .  .  ' 

While  he  was  speaking,  everything  was  explained.  The 
Boar's  Snout  spread  apart  with  an  explosion  that  split  the 
earth,  and  went  up  in  a  volcano  of  smoke  and  flame.  Claude 
and  the  Colonel's  messenger  were  thrown  on  their  faces. 
When  they  got  to  their  feet,  the  Snout  was  a  smoking  crater 
full  of  dead  and  dying  men.  The  Georgia  gun  teams  were  gone. 

It  was  for  this  that  the  Hun  advance  had  been  waiting  be- 


452  One  of  Ours 


hind  the  ridge.  The  mine  under  the  Snout  had  been  made 
long  ago,  probably,  on  a,  venture,  when  the  Hun  held  Moltke 
trench  for  months  without  molestation.  During  the  last 
twenty-four  hours  they  had  been  getting  their  explosives  in, 
reasoning  that  the  strongest  garrison  would  be  placed  there. 

Here  they  were,  coming  on  the  run.  It  was  up  to  the  rifles. 
The  men  who  had  been  knocked  down  by  the  shock  were  all 
on  their  feet  again.  They  looked  at  their  officer  questioningly, 
as  if  the  whole  situation  had  changed.  Claude  felt  they  were 
going  soft  under  his  eyes.  In  a  moment  the  Hun  bombers 
would  be  in  on  them,  and  they  would  break.  He  ran  along  the 
trench,  pointing  over  the  sand  bags  and  shouting,  "It's  up  to 
you,  it's  up  to  you !" 

The  rifles  recovered  themselves  and  began  firing,  but  Claude 
felt  they  were  spongy  and  uncertain,  that  their  minds  were 
already  on  the  way  to  the  rear.  If  they  did  anything,  it  must 
be  quick,  and  their  gun-work  must  be  accurate.  Nothing  but 
a  withering  fire  could  check.  .  .  .  He  sprang  to  the  fire- 
step  and  then  out  on  the  parapet.  Something  instantaneous 
happened;  he  had  his  men  in  hand. 

"Steady,  steady !"  He  called  the  range  to  the  rifle  teams  be- 
hind him,  and  he  could  see  the  fire  take  effect.  All  along  the 
Hun  lines  men  were  stumbling  and  falling.  They  swerved 
a  little  to  the  left ;  he  called  the  rifles  to  follow,  directing  them 
with  his  voice  and  with  his  hands.  It  was  not  only  that  from 
here  he  could  correct  the  range  and  direct  the  fire;  the  men 
behind  him  had  become  like  rock.  That  line  of  faces  below, 
Hicks,  Jones,  Fuller,  Anderson,  Oscar.  .  .  .  Their  eyes  never 
left  him.  With  these  men  he  could  do  anything.  He  had 
learned  the  mastery  of  men. 

The  right  of   the  Hun  line  swerved  out,   not  more  than 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"       453 

twenty  yards  from  the  battered  Snout,  trying  to  run  to  shelter 
under  that  pile  of  debris  and  human  bodies.  A  quick  concen- 
tration of  rifle  fire  depressed  it,  and  the  swell  came  out  again 
toward  the  left.  Claude's  appearance  on  the  parapet  had  at- 
tracted no  attention  from  the  enemy  at  fir.st,  but  now  the 
bullets  began  popping  about  him;  two  rattled  on  his  tin  hat, 
one  caught  him  in  the  shoulder.  The  blood  dripped  down 
his  coat,  but  he  felt  no  weakness.  He  felt  only  one  thing; 
that  he  commanded  wonderful  men.  When  David  came  up 
with  the  supports  he  might  find  them  dead,  but  he  would  find 
them  all  there.  They  were  there  to  stay  until  they  were  car- 
ried out  to  be  buried.  They  were  mortal,  but  they  were  un- 
conquerable. 

The  Colonel's  twenty  minutes  must  be  almost  up,  he  thought. 
He  couldn't  take  his  eyes  from  the  front  line  long  enough  to 
look  at  his  wrist  watch.  .  .  .  The  men  behind  him  saw  Claude 
sway  as  if  he  had  lost  his  balance  and  were  trying  to  recover  it. 
Then  he  plunged,  face  down,  outside  the  parapet.  Hicks 
caught  his  foot  and  pulled  him  back.  At  the  same  moment 
the  Missourians  ran  yelling  up  the  communication.  They 
threw  their  machine  guns  up  on  the  sand  bags  and  went  into 
action  without  an  unnecessary  motion. 

Hicks  and  Bert  Fuller  and  Oscar  carried  Claude  forward 
toward  the  Snout,  out  of  the  way  of  the  supports  that  were 
pouring  in.  He  was  not  bleeding  very  much.  He  smiled  at 
them  as  if  he  were  going  to  speak,  but  there  was  a  weak  blank- 
ness  in  his  eyes.  Bert  tore  his  shirt  open;  three  clean  bullet 
holes — one  through  his  heart.  By  the  time  they  looked  at  him 
again,  the  smile  had  gone  .  .  .  the  look  that  was  Claude  had 
faded.  Hicks  wiped  the  sweat  and  smoke  from  his  officer's 
face. 


4^4  One  of  Ours 


"Thank  God  I  never  told  him,"  he  said.  "Thank  God  for 
that!" 

Bert  and  Oscar  knew  what  Hicks  meant.  Gerhardt  had 
been  blown  to  pieces  at  his  side  when  they  dashed  back  through 
the  enemy  barrage  to  find  the  Missourians.  They  were  run- 
ning together  across  the  open,  not  able  to  see  much  for  smoke. 
They  bumped  into  a  section  of  wire  entanglement,  left  above  an 
old  trench.  David  cut  round  to  the  right,  waving  Hicks  to 
follow  him.  The  two  were  not  ten  yards  apart  when  the  shell 
struck.  Then  Sergeant  Hicks  ran  on  alone. 


XIX 


THE  sun  is  sinking  low,  a  transport  is  steaming  slowly 
up  the  narrows  with  the  tide.     The  decks  are  covered 
with  brown  men.     They  cluster  over  the  superstruc- 
ture like  bees  in  swarming  time.     Their  attitudes  are  relaxed 
and  lounging.     Some  look  thoughtful,   some  well  contented, 
some  are  melancholy,  and  many  are  indifferent,  as  they  watch 
the  shore  approaching.     They  are  not  the  same  men  who  went 
away. 

Sergeant  Hicks  was  standing  in  the  stern,  smoking,  reflect- 
ing, watching  the  twinkle  of  the  red  sunset  upon  the  cloudy 
water.  It  is  more  than  a  year  since  he  sailed  for  France.  The 
world  has  changed  in  that  time,  and  so  has  he. 

Bert  Fuller  elbowed  his  way  up  to  the  Sergeant.  "The 
doctor  says  Colonel  Maxey  is  dying.  He  won't  live  to  get  off 
the  boat,  much  less  to  ride  in  the  parade  in  New  York  to- 
morrow." 

Hicks  shrugged,  as  if  Maxey's  pneumonia  were  no  affair  of 
his.  "Well,  we  should  worry !  We've  left  better  officers  than 
him  over  there." 

"I'm  not  saying  we  haven't.  But  it  seems  too  bad,  when 
he's  so  strong  for  fuss  and  feathers.  He's  been  sending  cables 
about  that  parade  for  weeks." 

"Huh!"  Hicks  elevated  his  eyebrows  and  glanced  sidewise 
in  disdain.  Presently  he  sputtered,  squinting  down  at  the 
glittering  water,  "Colonel  Maxey,  anyhow!  Colonel  for  what 
Claude  and  Gerhardt  did,  /  guess !" 

455 


456  One  of  Ours 


Hicks  and  Bert  Fuller  have  been  helping  to  keep  the  noble 
fortress  of  Ehrenbreitstein.  They  have  always  hung  together 
and  are  usually  quarrelling  and  grumbling  at  each  other  when 
they  are  off  duty.  Still,  they  hang  together.  They  are  the 
last  of  their  group.  Nifty  Jones  and  Oscar,  God  only  knows 
why,  have  gone  on  to  the  Black  Sea. 

During  the  year  they  were  in  the  Rhine  valley,  Bert  and 
Hicks  were  separated  only  once,  and  that  was  when  Hicks 
got  a  two  weeks'  leave  and,  by  dint  of  persevering  and  fatigu- 
ing travel,  went  to  Venice.  He  had  no  proper  passport,  and  the 
consuls  and  officials  to  whom  he  had  appealed  in  his  difficulties 
begged  him  to  content  himself  with  something  nearer.  But  he 
said  he  was  going  to  Venice  because  he  had  always  heard  about 
it.  Bert  Fuller  was  glad  to  welcome  him  back  to  Coblentz,  and 
gave  a  "wine  party"  to  celebrate  his  return.  They  expect  to 
keep  an  eye  on  each  other.  Though  Bert  lives  on  the  Platte  and 
Hicks  on  the  Big  Blue,  the  automobile  roads  between  those 
two  rivers  are  excellent. 

Bert  is  the  same  sweet-tempered  boy  he  was  when  he  left 
his  mother's  kitchen;  his  gravest  troubles  have  been  frequent 
betrothals.  But  Hicks'  round,  chubby  face  has  taken  on  a 
slightly  cynical  expression/ — a  look  quite  out  of  place  there. 
The  chances  of  war  have  hurt  his  feelings  .  .  .  not  that  he 
ever  wanted  anything  for  himself.  The  way  in  which  glitter- 
ing honours  bump  down  upon  the  wrong  heads  in  the  army, 
and  palms  and  crosses  blossom  on  the  wrong  breasts,  has,  as 
he  says,  thrown  his  compass  off  a  few  points. 

What  Hicks  had  wanted  most  in  this  world  was  to  run  a 
garage  and  repair  shop  with  his  old  chum,  Dell  Able.  Beau- 
fort ended  all  that.  He  means  to  conduct  a  sort  of  memorial 
shop,  anyhow,  with  "Hicks  and  Able"  over  the  door.  He  wants 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"        457 

to  roll  up  his  sleeves  and  look  at  the  logical  and  beautiful  in- 
wards of  automobiles  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

As  the  transport  enters  the  North  River,  sirens  and  steam 
whistles  all  along  the  water  front  begin  to  blow  their  shrill 
salute  to  the  returning  soldiers.  The  men  square  their  shoul- 
ders and  smile  knowingly  at  one  another;  some  of  them  look 
a  little  bored.  Hicks  slowly  lights  a  cigarette  and  regards  the 
end  of  it  with  an  expression  which  will  puzzle  his  friends 
when  he  gets  home. 

By  the  banks  of  Lovely  Creek,  where  it  began,  Claude 
Wheeler's  story  still  goes  on.  To  the  two  old  women  who  work 
together  in  the  farmhouse,  the  thought  of  him  is  always  there, 
beyond  everything  else,  at  the  farthest  edge  of  consciousness, 
like  the  evening  sun  on  the  horizon. 

Mrs.  Wheeler  got  the  word  of  his  death  one  afternoon  in 
the  sitting-room,  the  room  in  which  he  had  bade  her  good-bye. 
She  was  reading  when  the  telephone  rang. 

"Is  this  the  Wheeler  farm?  This  is  the  telegraph  office  at 
Frankfort.  We  have  a  message  from  the  War  Department, — " 
the  voice  hesitated.  "Isn't  Mr.  Wheeler  there?" 

"No,  but  you  can  read  the  message  to  me." 

Mrs.  Wheeler  said,  "Thank  you,"  and  hung  up  the  receiver. 
She  felt  her  way  softly  to  her  chair.  She  had  an  hour  alone, 
when  there  was  nothing  but  him  in  the  room, —  but  him  and  the 
map  there,  which  was  the  end  of  his  road.  Somewhere  among 
those  perplexing  names,  he  had  found  his  place. 

Claude's  letters  kept  coming  for  weeks  afterward ;  then  came 
the  letters  from  his  comrades  and  his  Colonel  to  tell  her  all. 

In  the  dark  months  that  followed,  when  human  nature  looked 
to  her  uglier  than  it  had  ever  done  before,  those  letters  were 


458  One  of  Ours 


Mrs.  Wheeler's  comfort.  As  she  read  the  newspapers,  she 
used  to  think  about  the  passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  in  the  Bible; 
it  seemed  as  if  the  flood  of  meanness  and  greed  had  been  held 
back  just  long  enough  for  the  boys  to  go  over,  and  then  swept 
down  and  engulfed  everything  that  was  left  at  home.  When 
she  can  see  nothing  that  has  come  of  it  all  but  evil,  she  reads 
Claude's  letters  over  again  and  reassures  herself;  for  him 
the  call  was  clear,  the  cause  was  glorious.  Never  a  doubt 
stained  his  bright  faith.  She  divines  so  much  that  he  did  not 
write.  She  knows  what  to  read  into  those  short  flashes  of 
enthusiasm;  how  fully  he  must  have  found  his  life  before  he 
could  let  himself  go  so  far  —  he,  who  was  so  afraid  of  being 
fooled!  He  died  believing  his  own  country  better  than  it  is, 
and  France  better  than  any  country  can  ever  be.  And  those 
were  beautiful  beliefs  to  die  with.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  to 
see  that  vision,  and  then  to  see  no  more.  She  would  have 
dreaded  the  awakening, —  she  sometimes  even  doubts  whether 
he  could  have  borne  at  all  that  last,  desolating  disappointment. 
One  by  one  the  heroes  of  that  war,  the  men  of  dazzling  soldier- 
ship, leave  prematurely  the  world  they  have  come  back  to. 
Airmen  whose  deeds  were  tales  of  wonder,  officers  whose 
names  made  the  blood  of  youth  beat  faster,  survivors  of  in- 
credible dangers,' —  one  by  one  they  quietly  die  by  their  own 
hand.  Some  do  it  in  obscure  lodging  houses,  some  in  their  office, 
where  they  seemed  to  be  carrying  on  their  business  like  other 
men.  Some  slip  over  a  vessel's  side  and  disappear  into  the 
sea.  When  Claude's  mother  hears  of  these  things,  she  shud- 
ders and  presses  her  hands  tight  over  her  breast,  as  if  she  had 
him  there.  She  feels  as  if  God  had  saved  him  from  some 
horrible  suffering,  some  horrible  end.  For  as  she  reads,  she 
thinks  those  slayers  of  themselves  were  all  so  like  him;  they 


"Bidding  the  Eagles  of  the  West  Fly  On"      459 

were  the  ones  who  had  hoped  extravagantly,- —  who  in  order  to 
do  what  they  did  had  to  hope  extravagantly,  and  to  believe 
passionately.  And  they  found  they  had  hoped  and  believed  too 
much.  But  one  she  knew,  who  could  ill  bear  disillusion  .  .  . 
safe,  safe. 

Mahailey,  when  they  are  alone,  sometimes  addresses  Mrs. 
Wheeler  as  "Mudder" ;  "Now,  Mudder,  you  go  upstairs  an' 
lay  down  an*  rest  yourself."  Mrs.  Wheeler  knows  that  then 
she  is  thinking  of  Claude,  is  speaking  for  Claude.  As  they 
are  working  at  the  table  or  bending  over  the  oven,  something 
reminds  them  of  him,  and  they  think  of  him  together,  like  one 
person :  Mahailey  will  pat  her  back  and  say,  "Never  you  mind, 
Mudder;  you'll  see  your  boy  up  yonder."  Mrs.  Wheeler 
always  feels  that  God  is  near, —  but  Mahailey  is  not  troubled 
by  any  knowledge  of  interstellar  spaces,  and  for  her  He  is 
nearer  still, —  directly  overhead,  not  so  very  far  above  the 
kitchen  stove. 


THE  END 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


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